SUCCESS 


Success 


A  NOFEL 


SAMUEL  HOPKINS  ADAMS 

Author  of  "  The  Clarion,"  "  Common  Cause,"  etc. 


Boston  and  New  York 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(Cbe 


COPYRIGHT,   19*1,   BY  THE  PICTORIAL  REVIEW  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1931,  BY  SAMUEL  HOPKINS  ADAMS 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED  INCLUDING  THE  RIGHT  TO  REPRODUCE 
THIS  BOOK  OR  PARTS  THEREOF  IN  ANY  FORM 


CONTENTS 

PART     I.  ENCHANTMENT  i 

PART    II.  THE  VISION  153 

PART  III.  FULFILLMENT  349 


M1384J.O 


SUCCESS 

PART  I 
ENCHANTMENT 


SUCCESS 

•  • 

PART  I 

ENCHANTMENT 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  lonely  station  of  Manzanita  stood  out,  sharp  and  unsightly, 
in  the  keen  February  sunlight.  A  mile  away  in  a  dip  of  the 
desert,  lay  the  town,  a  sorry  sprawl  of  frame  buildings,  pattern- 
less  save  for  the  one  main  street,  whidi  promptly  lost  itself  at 
either  end  in  a  maze  of  cholla,  prickly  pear,  and  the  lovely, 
golden-glowing  roseo.  Far  as  the  eye  could  see,  the  waste  was 
spangled  with  vivid  hues,  for  the  rare  rains  had  come,  and  all  the 
cacti  were  in  joyous  bloom,  from  the  scarlet  stain  of  the  ocatilla 
to  the  pale,  dream-flower  of  the  yucca.  Overhead  the  sky  shone 
with  a  hard  serenity,  a  blue,  enameled  dome  through  which  the 
imperishable  fires  seemed  magnified  as  they  limned  sharp  shad 
ows  on  the  earth ;  but  in  the  southwest  clouds  massed  and  lurked 
darkly  for  a  sign  that  the  storm  had  but  called  a  truce. 

East  to  west,  along  a  ridge  bounding  the  lower  desert,  ran  the 
railroad,  a  line  as  harshly  uncompromising  as  the  cold  mathe 
matics  of  the  engineers  who  had  mapped  it.  To  the  north  spread 
unfathomably  a  forest  of  scrub  pine  and  pifion,  rising,  here  and 
there,  into  loftier  growth.  It  was  as  if  man,  with  his  imperious 
interventions,  had  set  those  thin  steel  parallels  as  an  irrefragable 
boundary  to  the  mutual  encroachments  of  forest  and  desert, 
tree  and  cactus.  A  single,  straggling  trail  squirmed  its  way  into 
the  woodland.  One  might  have  surmised  that  it  was  winding 
hopefully  if  blindly  toward  the  noble  mountain  peak  shimmering 
in  white  splendor,  mystic  and  wonderful,  sixty  miles  away,  but 
seeming  in  that  lucent  air  to  be  brooding  closely  over  all  the 
varied  loveliness  below. 

Though  nine  o'clock  had  struck  on  the  brisk  little  station- 


4  Success 

clock,  there  was  still  a  tang  of  night  chill  left.  The  station- 
agent  came  out,  carrying  a  chair  which  he  set  down  in  the  sun 
niest  corner  of  the  platform.  He  looked  to  be  hardly  more  than  a 
boy,  but  firm-knit  and  self-confident.  His  features  were  regular, 
his  fairish  hair  slightly  wavy,  and  in  his  expression  there  was  a 
curious  and  incongruous  suggestion  of  scttledness,  of  accept 
ance,  of  satisfaction  with  life  as  he  met  it,  which  an  observer  of 
men  would  have  found  difficult  to  reconcile  with  his  youth  and 
the  obvious  intelligence  of  the  face.  His  eyes  were  masked  by 
deeply  browned  glasses,  for  he  was  bent  upon  literary  pursuits, 
witness  the  corpulent,  paper-covered  volume  under  his  arm. 
Adjusting  his  chair  to  the  angle  of  ease,  he  tipped  back  against 
the  wall  and  made  tentative  entry  into  his  book. 

What  a  monumental  work  was  that  in  the  treasure-filled  re 
cesses  of  which  the  young  explorer  was  straightway  lost  to  the 
outer  world !  No  human  need  but  might  find  its  contentment 
therein.  Spread  forth  in  its  alluringly  illustrated  pages  was  the 
whole  universe  reduced  to  the  purchasable.  It  was  a  perfect  and 
detailed  microcosm  of  the  world  of  trade,  the  cosmogony  of  com 
merce  in  petto.  The  style  was  brief,  pithy,  pregnant ;  the  illus 
trations  —  oh,  wonder  of  wonders !  —  unfailingly  apt  to  the  text. 
He  who  sat  by  the  Damascus  Road  of  old  marveling  as  the  cara 
vans  rolled  dustily  past  bearing  "emeralds  and  wheat,  honey  and 
oil  and  balm,  fine  linen  and  embroidered  goods,  iron,  cassia  and 
calamus,  white  wool,  ivory  and  ebony/'  beheld  or  conjectured 
no  such  wondrous  offerings  as  were  here  gathered,  collected,  and 
presented  for  the  patronage  of  this  heir  of  all  the  ages,  between 
the  gay-hued  covers  of  the  great  Sears-Roebuck  Semiannual 
Mail-Order  Catalogue.  Its  happy  possessor  need  but  cross  the 
talisman  with  the  ready  magic  of  a  postal  money  order  and  the 
swift  genii  of  transportation  would  attend,  servile  to  his  call,  to 
deliver  the  commanded  treasures  at  his  very  door. 

But  the  young  reader  was  not  purposefully  shopping  in  this 
vast  market-place  of  print.  Rather  he  was  adventuring  idly, 
indulging  the  amateur  spirit,  playing  a  game  of  hit-or-miss,  seek 
ing  oracles  in  those  teeming  pages.  Therefore  he  did  not  turn 
the  pink  insert,  embodying  the  alphabetical  catalogue  (Abdoi 
nal  Bands  to  Zither  Strings),  but  opened  at  random. 


Enchantment 


"Supertoned  Banjos,"  he  read,  beginning  at  the  heading; 
and,  running  his  eye  down  the  different  varieties,  paused  at 
"Pride  of  the  Plantation,  a  full-sized,  well-made,  snappy-toned 
instrument  at  a  very  moderate  price.  12  T  4031/4." 

The  explorer  shook  his  head.  Abovestairs  rested  a  guitar  (the 
Pearletta,  128  206,  price  $7.95)  which  he  had  purchased  at  the 
instance  of  Messrs.  Sears-Roebuck's  insinuating  representation 
as  set  forth  in  catalogue  item  128  01942,  "  Self-mastery  of  the 
Guitar  in  One  Book,  with  All  Chords,  Also  Popular  Solos  That 
Can  Be  Played  Almost  at  Sight."  The  nineteen-cent  instruction- 
book  had  gone  into  the  fire  after  three  days  of  unequal  combat 
between  it  and  its  owner,  and  the  latter  had  subsequently  learned 
something  of  the  guitar  (and  more  of  life)  from  a  Mexican- 
American  girl  with  lazy  eyes  and  the  soul  of  a  capricious  and 
self-indulged  kitten,  who  had  come  uninvited  to  Manzanita  to 
visit  an  aunt,  deceased  six  months  previously.  With  a  mild  pang 
of  memory  for  those  dreamy,  music-filled  nights  on  the  desert, 
the  youth  decided  against  further  experiments  in  stringed  or 
chestration. 

Telescopes  turned  up  next.  He  lingered  a  moment  over  20  T 
3513,  a  nickel-plated  cap  pocket-glass,  reflecting  that  with  it  he 
could  discern  any  signal  on  the  distant  wooded  butte  occupied 
by  Miss  Camilla  Van  Arsdale,  back  on  the  forest  trail,  in  the 
event  that  she  might  wish  a  wire  sent  or  any  other  service  per 
formed.  Miss  Camilla  had  been  very  kind  and  understanding 
at  the  time  of  the  parting  with  Carlotta,  albeit  with  a  grimly 
humorous  disapproval  of  the  whole  inflammatory  affair ;  as  well 
as  at  other  times ;  and  there  was  nothing  that  he  would  not  do 
for  her.  He  made  a  neat  entry  in  a  pocket  ledger  (3  T  9901) 
against  the  time  when  he  should  have  spare  cash,  and  essayed 
another  plunge. 

Arctics  and  Lumberman's  Overs  he  passed  by  with  a  grin  as 
inappropriate  to  the  climate.  Cod  Liver  Oil  failed  to  interest 
him,  as  did  the  Provident  Cast  Iron  Range  and  the  Clean-Press 
Cider  Mill.  But  he  paused  speculatively  before  Punching  Bags, 
for  he  had  the  clean  pride  of  body,  typical  of  lusty  Western 
youth,  and  loved  all  forms  of  exercise.  Could  he  find  space,  he 
wondered,  to  install  6  T  1441  with  its  Scientific  Noiseless  Plat- 


6  Success 

form  &  Wall  Attachment  (6  T  1476)  in  the  portable  house 
(55  S  17)  which,  purchased  a  year  before,  now  stood  in  the 
clearing  behind  the  station  crammed  with  purchases  from  the 
Sears-Roebuck  wonderbook.  Anyway,  he  would  make  another 
note  of  it.  What  would  it  be  like,  he  wondered,  to  have  a  million 
dollars  to  spend,  and  unlimited  access  to  the  Sears-Roebuck 
treasures.  Picturing  himself  as  such  a  Crcesus,  he  innocently 
thought  that  his  first  act  would  be  to  take  train  for  Chicago  and 
inspect  the  warehoused  accumulations  of  those  princes  of  trade 
with  his  own  eager  eyes ! 

He  mused  humorously  for  a  moment  over  a  book  on  "  Ease  in 
Conversation."  ("No  trouble  about  conversation,"  he  reflected ; 
"the  difficulty  is  to  find  anybody  to  converse  with,"  and  he 
thought  first  of  Carlotta,  and  then  of  Miss  Camilla  Van  Arsdale, 
but  chiefly  of  the  latter,  for  conversation  had  not  been  the  strong 
point  of  the  passionate,  light-hearted  Spanish  girl.)  Upon  a 
volume  kindly  offering  to  teach  astronomy  to  the  lay  mind  with 
out  effort  or  trouble  (43  T  790)  and  manifestly  cheap  at  $1.10, 
he  bestowed  a  more  respectful  attention,  for  the  desert  nights 
were  long  and  lonely. 

Eventually  he  arrived  at  the  department  appropriate  to  his 
age  and  the  almost  universal  ambition  of  the  civilized  male,  to 
wit,  clothing.  Deeply,  judiciously,  did  he  meditate  and  weigh 
the  advantages  as  between  745  J  460  ("Something  new  —  differ 
ent  —  economical  —  efficient.  An  all-wool  suit  embodying  all  the 
features  that  make  for  clothes  satisfaction.  This  announcement 
is  of  tremendous  importance "  —  as  one  might  well  have  in 
ferred  from  the  student's  rapt  expression)  and  776}  017  ("A 
double-breasted,  snappy,  yet  semi-conservative  effect  in  dark- 
green  worsted,  a  special  social  value"),  leaning  to  the  latter 
because  of  a  purely  literary  response  to  that  subtle  and  deft 
appeal  of  the  attributive  "social."  The  devotee  of  Messrs. 
Sears-Roebuck  was  an  innately  social  person,  though  as  yet  his 
gregarious  proclivities  lay  undeveloped  and  unsuspected  by 
himself.  Also  he  was  of  a  literary  tendency ;  but  of  this  he  was 
already  self-conscious.  He  passed  on  to  ulsters  and  raincoats, 
divagated  into  the  colorful  realm  of  neckwear,  debated  scarf- 


Enchantment 


pins  and  cuff-links,  visualized  patterned  shirtings,  and  emerged 
to  dream  of  composite  sartorial  grandeurs  which,  duly  synthe 
sized  into  a  long  list  of  hopeful  entries,  were  duly  filed  away 
within  the  pages  of  3  T  9901,  the  pocket  ledger. 

Footsteps  shuffling  along  the  right  of  way  dispelled  his  visions. 
He  looked  up  to  see  two  pedestrians  who  halted  at  his  movement. 
They  were  paired  typically  of  that  strange  fraternity,  the  hobo, 
one  being  a  grizzled,  hard-bitten  man  of  waning  middle  age,  the 
other  a  vicious  and  scrawny  boy  of  eighteen  or  so.  The  boy 
spoke  first. 

"You  the  main  guy  here?" 

The  agent  nodded. 

"Got  a  sore  throat?"  demanded  the  boy  surlily.  He  started 
toward  the  door.  The  agent  made  no  move,  but  his  eyes  were 
attentive. 

"That'll  be  near  enough,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Oh,  we  ain't  on  that  lay,"  put  in  the  grizzled  man.  He  was 
quite  hoarse.  "You  needn't  to  be  scared  of  us." 

"I'm  not,"  agreed  the  agent.  And,  indeed,  the  fact  was  self- 
evident. 

"What  about  the  pueblo  yonder?"  asked  the  man  with  a  jerk 
of  his  head  toward  the  town. 

"The  hoosegow  is  old  and  the  sheriff  is  new." 

"I  got  ya,"  said  the  man,  nodding.  "We  better  be  on  our 
way." 

"I  would  think  so." 

"You're  a  hell  of  a  guy,  you  are,"  whined  the  boy.  "'On  yer 
way'  from  you  an'  not  so  much  as  'Are  you  hungry?'  What 
about  a  little  hand-out?" 

"Nothing  doing." 

"Tightwad!  How'd  you  like  — " 

"If  you're  hungry,  feel  in  your  coat-pocket." 

"I  guess  you're  a  wise  one,"  put  in  the  man,  grinning  appreci 
atively.  "We  got  grub  enough.  Panhandlin's  a  habit  with  the 
kid ;  don't  come  natural  to  him  to  pass  a  likely  prospect  without 
makin'  a  touch." 

He  leaned  against  the  platform,  raising  one  foot  slightly  from 


8  Success 

the  ground  in  the  manner  of  a  limping  animal.  The  agent  dis 
appeared  into  the  station,  locking  the  door  after  him.  The  boy 
gave  expression  to  a  violent  obscenity  directed  upon  the  vanished 
man.  When  that  individual  emerged  again,  he  handed  the 
grizzled  man  a  box  of  ointment  and  tossed  a  packet  of  tobacco 
to  the  evil-faced  boy.  Both  were  quick  with  their  thanks.  That 
which  they  had  most  needed  and  desired  had  been,  as  it  were, 
spontaneously  provided.  But  the  elder  of  the  wayfarers  was 
puzzled,  and  looked  from  the  salve-box  to  its  giver. 

"How'd  you  know  my  feet  was  blistered?" 

"Been  padding  in  the  rain,  haven't  you?" 

"Have  you  been  on  the  hoof,  too?"  asked  the  hobo  quickly. 

The  other  smiled. 

"  Say ! "  exclaimed  the  boy.  "  I  bet  he's  Banneker.  Are  you  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

"That's  my  name." 

"I  heard  of  you  three  years  ago  when  you  was  down  on  the 
Long  Line  Sandy,"  said  the  man.  He  paused  and  considered. 
"What's  your  lay,  Mr.  Banneker?"  he  asked,  curiously  but 
respectfully. 

"As  you  see  it.  Railroading." 

"A  gay-cat,"  put  in  the  boy  with  a  touch  of  scorn. 

"You  hold  your  fresh  lip,"  his  elder  rebuked  him.  "This  gent 
has  treated  us  like  a  gent.  But  why?  What's  the  idea?  That's 
what  I  don't  get." 

"Oh,  some  day  I  might  want  to  run  for  Governor  on  the  hobo 
ticket,"  returned  the  unsmiling  agent. 

"You  get  our  votes.  Well,  so  long  and  much  obliged.'* 

The  two  resumed  their  journey.  Banneker  returned  to  his 
book.  A  freight,  "running  extra,"  interrupted  him,  but  not  for 
long.  The  wire  had  been  practicing  a  seemly  restraint  for 
uneventful  weeks,  so  the  agent  felt  that  he  could  settle  down  to 
a  sure  hour's  bookishness  yet,  even  though  the  west-bound 
Transcontinental  Special  should  be  on  time,  which  was  improb 
able,  as  "bad  track"  had  been  reported  from  eastward,  owing  to 
the  rains.  Rather  to  his  surprise,  he  had  hardly  got  well  reim- 
mersed  in  the  enchantments  of  the  mercantile  fairyland  when 
the  "Open  Office"  wire  warned  him  to  be  attentive,  and pres- 


Enchantment 


ently  from  the  east  came  tidings  of  Number  Three  running 
almost  true  to  schedule,  as  befitted  the  pride  of  the  line,  the 
finest  train  that  crossed  the  continent. 

Past  the  gaunt  station  she  roared,  only  seven  minutes  late, 
giving  the  imaginative  young  official  a  glimpse  and  flash  of  the 
uttermost  luxury  of  travel :  rich  woods,  gleaming  metal,  elegance 
of  finish,  and  on  the  rear  of  the  observation-car  a  group  so  lily- 
clad  that  Sears-Roebuck  at  its  most  glorious  was  not  like  unto 
them.  Would  such  a  train,  the  implanted  youth  wondered,  ever 
bear  him  away  to  unknown,  undreamed  enchantments? 

Would  he  even  wish  to  go  if  he  might  ?  Life  was  full  of  many 
things  to  do  and  learn  at  Manzanita.  Mahomet  need  not  go  to 
the  mountain  when,  with  but  a  mustard  seed  of  faith  in  the 
proven  potency  of  mail-order  miracles  he  could  move  mountains 
to  come  to  him.  Leaning  to  his  telegraph  instrument,  he  wired 
to  the  agent  at  Stan  wood,  twenty-six  miles  down-line,  his 
formal  announcement. 

"O.  S.  —  G.  I.  No.  3  by  at  10.46." 

"O.  K.  —  D.  S.,"  came  the  response. 

Banneker  returned  to  the  sunlight.  In  seven  minutes  or  per 
haps  less,  as  the  Transcontinental  would  be  straining  to  make  up 
lost  time,  the  train  would  enter  Rock  Cut  three  miles  and  more 
west,  and  he  would  recapture  the  powerful  throbbing  of  the 
locomotive  as  she  emerged  on  the  farther  side,  having  conquered 
the  worst  of  the  grade. 

Banneker  waited.  He  drew  out  his  watch.  Seven.  Seven  and  a 
half.  Eight.  No  sound  from  westward.  He  frowned.  Like  most 
of  the  road's  employees,  he  took  a  special  and  almost  personal 
interest  in  having  the  regal  train  on  time,  as  if,  in  dispatching  it 
through,  he  had  given  it  a  friendly  push  on  its  swift  and  mighty 
mission.  Was  she  steaming  badly  ?  There  had  been  no  sign  of  v 
as  she  passed.  Perhaps  something  had  gone  wrong  with  the 
brakes.  Or  could  the  track  have  — 

The  agent  tilted  sharply  forward,  his  lithe  frame  tense.  A 
long-drawn,  quivering  shriek  came  down- wind  to  him.  It  was 
repeated.  Then  short  and  sharp,  piercing  note  on  piercing  note, 
sounded  the  shrill,  clamant  voice. 

The  great  engine  of  Number  Three  was  yelling  for  help. 


CHAPTER  II 

BANNEKER  came  out  of  his  chair  with  a  spring. 

"Help!  Help!  Help!  Help!  Help!"  screamed  the  strident 
voice. 

It  was  like  an  animal  in  pain  and  panic. 

For  a  brief  instant  the  station-agent  halted  at  the  door  to 
assure  himself  that  the  call  was  stationary.  It  was.  Also  it  was 
slightly  muffled.  That  meant  that  the  train  was  still  in  the  cut. 
As  he  ran  to  the  key  and  sent  in  the  signal  for  Stanwood,  Ban- 
tieker  reflected  what  this  might  mean.  Crippled  ?  Likely  enough. 
Ditched?  He  guessed  not.  A  ditched  locomotive  is  usually 
voiceless  if  not  driverless  as  well.  Blocked  by  a  slide  ?  Rock  Cut 
had  a  bad  repute  for  that  kind  of  accident.  But  the  quality  of 
the  call  predicated  more  of  a  catastrophe  than  a  mere  blockade. 
Besides,  in  that  case  why  could  not  the  train  back  down  — 

The  answering  signal  from  the  dispatcher  at  Stanwood  inter 
rupted  his  conjectures. 

"Number  Three  in  trouble  in  the  Cut,"  ticked  Banneker 
fluently.  "Think  help  probably  needed  from  you.  Shall  I  go 
out?" 

"O.  K.,"  came  the  answer.  "Take  charge.  Bad  track  reported 
three  miles  east  may  delay  arrival." 

Banneker  dropped  and  locked  the  windows,  set  his  signal  for 
"track  blocked"  and  ran  to  the  portable  house.  Inside  he  stood, 
considering.  With  swift  precision  he  took  from  one  of  the  home- 
carpentered  shelves  a  compact  emergency  kit,  17  S  4230, 
"hefted"  it,  and  adjusted  it,  knapsack  fashion,  to  his  back ;  then 
from  a  small  cabinet  drew  a  flask,  which  he  disposed  in  his  hip- 
pocket.  Another  part  of  the  same  cabinet  provided  a  first-aid 
outfit,  3  R  0114.  Thus  equipped  he  was  just  closing  the  door 
after  him  when  another  thought  struck  him  and  he  returned  to 
slip  a  coil  of  light,  strong  sash-cord,  36  J  9078,  over  his  shoulders 
to  his  waist  where  he  deftly  tautened  it.  He  had  seen  railroad 
wrecks  before.  For  a  moment  he  considered  leaving  his  coat, 
for  he  had  upwards  of  three  miles  to  go  in  the  increasing  heat ; 


Enchantment  11 

but,  reflecting  that  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  authority 
might  save  time  and  questions,  he  thought  better  of  it.  Patting 
his  pocket  to  make  sure  that  his  necessary  notebook  and  pencil 
were  there,  he  set  out  at  a  moderate,  even,  springless  lope.  He 
had  no  mind  to  reach  a  scene  which  might  require  his  best 
qualities  of  mind  and  body,  in  a  semi-exhausted  state.  Neverthe 
less,  laden  as  he  was,  he  made  the  three  miles  in  less  than  half  an 
hour.  Let  no  man  who  has  not  tried  to  cover  at  speed  the  ribbed 
treacheries  of  a  railroad  track  minimize  the  achievement ! 

A  sharp  curve  leads  to  the  entrance  of  Rock  Cut.  Running 
easily,  Banneker  had  reached  the  beginning  of  the  turn,  when  he 
became  aware  of  a  lumbering  figure  approaching  him  at  a  high 
and  wild  sort  of  half -gallop.  The  man's  face  was  a  welter  of 
blood.  One  hand  was  pressed  to  it.  The  other  swung  crazily  as 
he  ran.  He  would  have  swept  past  Banneker  unregarding  had 
not  the  agent  caught  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Where  are  you  hurt?" 

The  runner  stared  wildly  at  the  young  man.  "I'll  soom,"  he 
mumbled  breathlessly,  his  hand  still  crumpled  against  the  dread 
fully  smeared  face.  "Dammum,  I'll  soom." 

He  removed  his  hand  from  his  mouth,  and  the  red  drops 
splattered  and  were  lost  upon  the  glittering,  thirsty  sand.  Ban 
neker  wiped  the  man's  face,  and  found  no  injury.  But  the 
fingers  which  he  had  crammed  into  his  mouth  were  bleeding  pro 
fusely. 

"They  oughta  be  prosecuted,"  moaned  the  sufferer.  "7'11 
soom.  For  ten  thousan'  dollars.  M'hand  is  smashed.  Looka 
that !  Smashed  like  a  bug." 

Banneker  caught  the  hand  and  expertly  bound  it,  taking  the 
man's  name  and  address  as  he  worked. 

"  Is  it  a  bad  wreck  ?  "  he  asked. 

"It's  hell.  Look  at  m'hand!  But  I'll  soom,  all  right.  7'11 
show'm.  ...  Oh ! ...  Cars  are  afire,  too.  .  .  .  Oh-h-h !  Where's 
a  hospital?" 

He  cursed  weakly  as  Banneker,  without  answering,  re-stowed 
his  packet  and  ran  on. 

A  thin  wisp  of  smoke  rising  above  the  nearer  wall  of  rocks 


12  Success 

made  the  agent  set  his  teeth.  Throughout  his  course  the  voice  of 
the  engine  had,  as  it  were,  yapped  at  his  hurrying  heels,  but  now 
it  was  silent,  and  he  could  hear  a  murmur  of  voices  and  an  occa 
sional  shouted  order.  He  came  into  sight  of  the  accident,  to  face 
a  bewildering  scene. 

Two  hundred  yards  up  the  track  stood  the  major  portion  of  the 
train,  intact.  Behind  it,  by  itself,  lay  a  Pullman  sleeper,  on  its 
side  and  apparently  little  harmed.  Nearest  to  Banneker,  partly 
on  the  rails  but  mainly  beside  them,  was  jumbled  a  ridiculous 
mess  of  woodwork,  with  here  and  there  a  gleam  of  metal,  center 
ing  on  a  large  and  jagged  boulder.  Smaller  rocks  were  scattered 
through  the  melange.  It  was  exactly  like  a  heap  of  giant  jack- 
straws  into  which  some  mischievous  spirit  had  tossed  a  large 
pebble.  At  one  end  a  flame  sputtered  and  spread  cheerfully.  j 

A  panting  and  grimy  conductor  staggered  toward  it  with  a 
pail  of  water  from  the  engine.  Banneker  accosted  him. 

"Any  one  in  —  " 

"Get  outa  my  way !"  gasped  the  official. 

"I'm  agent  at  Manzanita." 

The  conductor  set  down  his  pail.  "O  God!"  he  said.  "Did 
you  bring  any  help  ?  " 

"No,  I'm  alone.  Any  one  in  there ? "  He  pointed  to  the  flaming 
debris. 

"One  that  we  know  of.  He's  dead." 

"Sure?"  cried  Banneker  sharply. 

"Look  for  yourself.  Go  the  other  side." 

Banneker  looked  and  returned,  white  and  set  of  face.  "How 
many  others?" 

"Seven,  so  far." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  the  agent  with  a  sense  of  relief.  It  seemed 
as  if  no  occupant  could  have  come  forth  of  that  ghastly  and 
absurd  rubbish -heap,  which  had  been  two  luxurious  Pullmans, 
alive. 

"There's  a  dozen  that's  hurt  bad." 

"No  use  watering  that  mess,"  said  Banneker.  "It  won't  burn 
much  further.  Wind's  against  it.  Anybody  left  in  the  other 
smashed  cars?" 


Enchantment  13 

"Don't  think  so." 

"Got  the  names  of  the  dead?" 

"Now,  how  would  I  have  the  time !"  demanded  the  conductor 
resentfully. 

Banneker  turned  to  the  far  side  of  the  track  where  the  seven 
bodies  lay.  They  were  not  disposed  decorously.  The  faces  were 
uncovered.  The  postures  were  crumpled  and  grotesque.  A  for 
gotten  corner  of  a  battle-field  might  look  like  that,  the  young 
agent  thought,  bloody  and  disordered  and  casual. 

Nearest  him  was  the  body  of  a  woman  badly  crushed,  and, 
crouching  beside  it,  a  man  who  fondled  one  of  its  hands,  weeping 
quietly.  Close  by  lay  the  corpse  of  a  child  showing  no  wound  or 
mark,  and  next  that,  something  so  mangled  that  it  might  have 
been  either  man  or  woman  —  or  neither.  The  other  victims  were 
humped  or  sprawled  upon  the  sand  in  postures  of  exaggerated 
abandon;  all  but  one,  a  blonde  young  girl  whose  upthrust  arm 
seemed  to  be  reaching  for  something  just  beyond  her  grasp. 

A  group  of  the  uninjured  from  the  forward  cars  surrounded 
and  enclosed  a  confused  sound  of  moaning  and  crying.  Banneker 
pushed  briskly  through  the  ring.  About  twenty  wounded  lay 
upon  the  ground  or  were  propped  against  the  rock-wall.  Over 
them  two  women  were  expertly  working,  one  tiny  and  beautiful, 
with  jewels  gleaming  on  her  reddened  hands ;  the  other  brisk, 
homely,  with  a  suggestion  of  the  professional  in  her  precise  mo 
tions.  A  broad,  fat,  white-bearded  man  seemed  to  be  informally 
in  charge.  At  least  he  was  giving  directions  in  a  growling  voice 
as  he  bent  over  the  sufferers.  Banneker  went  to  him. 

"Doctor?"  he  inquired. 

The  other  did  not  even  look  up.  "Don't  bother  me,"  he 
snapped. 

The  station-agent  pushed  his  first-aid  packet  into  the  old 
man's  hands. 

"Good!"  grunted  the  other.  "Hold  this  fellow's  head,  will 
you?  Hold  it  hard." 

Banneker's  wrists  were  props  of  steel  as  he  gripped  the  tossing 
head.  The  old  man  took  a  turn  with  a  bandage  and  fastened  it. 

"He'll  die,  anyway,"  he  said,  and  lifted  his  face. 


14  Success 


Banneker  cackled  like  a  silly  girl  at  full  sight  of  him.  The 
spreading  whisker  on  the  far  side  of  his  stern  face  was  gayly  pied 
in  blotches  of  red  and  green. 

"Going  to  have  hysterics?"  demanded  the  old  man,  striking 
not  so  far  short  of  the  truth. 

"No,"  said  the  agent,  mastering  himself.  "Hey!  you,  train 
man,"  he  called  to  a  hobbling,  blue-coated  fellow.  "Bring  two 
buckets  of  water  from  the  boiler-tap,  hot  and  clean.  Clean,  mind 
you!"  The  man  nodded  and  limped  away.  "Anything  else, 
Doctor?"  asked  the  agent.  "Got  towels?" 

"Yes.  And  I'm  not  a  doctor  —  not  for  forty  years.  But  I'm 
the  nearest  thing  to  it  in  this  shambles.  Who  are  you?" 

Banneker  explained.  "I'll  be  back  in  five  minutes,"  he  said 
and  passed  into  the  subdued  and  tremulous  crowd. 

On  the  outskirts  loitered  a  lank,  idle  young  man  clad  beyond 
the  glories  of  Messrs.  Sears-Roebuck's  highest-colored  imaginings. 

"Hurt?"  asked  Banneker. 

"No,"  said  the  youth. 

"Can  you  run  three  miles?" 

"I  fancy  so." 

"Will  you  take  an  urgent  message  to  be  wired  from  Man- 
zanita?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  youth  with  good-will. 

Tearing  a  leaf  from  his  pocket-ledger,  Banneker  scribbled  a 
dispatch  which  is  still  preserved  in  the  road's  archives  as  giving 
more  vital  information  in  fewer  words  than  any  other  railroad 
document  extant.  He  instructed  the  messenger  where  to  find  a 
substitute  telegrapher. 

"Answer?"  asked  the  youth,  unfurling  his  long  legs. 

"No,"  returned  Banneker,  and  the  courier,  tossing  his  coat  off, 
took  the  road. 

Banneker  turned  back  to  the  improvised  hospital. 

"I'm  going  to  move  these  people  into  the  cars,"  he  said  to  the 
man  in  charge.  "The  berths  are  being  made  up  now." 

The  other  nodded.  Banneker  gathered  helpers  and  super 
intended  the  transfer.  One  of  the  passengers,  an  elderly  lady 
who  had  shown  no  sign  of  grave  injury,  died  smiling  courageously 
as  they  were  lifting  her. 


Enchantment  15 


It  gave  Banneker  a  momentary  shock  of  helpless  responsi 
bility.  Why  should  she  have  been  the  one  to  die?  Only  five 
minutes  before  she  had  spoken  to  him  in  self-possessed,  even 
tones,  saying  that  her  traveling-bag  contained  camphor,  am 
monia,  and  iodine  if  he  needed  them.  She  had  seemed  a  reliable, 
helpful  kind  of  lady,  and  now  she  was  dead.  It  struck  Banneker 
as  improbable  and,  in  a  queer  sense,  discriminatory.  Remem 
bering  the  slight,  ready  smile  with  which  she  had  addressed  him, 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  suffered  a  personal  loss ;  he  would  have  liked 
to  stay  and  work  over  her,  trying  to  discover  if  there  might  not  be 
some  spark  of  life  remaining,  to  be  cherished  back  into  flame,  but 
the  burly  old  man's  decisive  "  Gone,"  settled  that.  Besides,  there 
were  other  things,  official  things  to  be  looked  to. 

A  full  report  would  be  expected  of  him,  as  to  the  cause  of  the 
accident.  The  presence  of  the  boulder  in  the  wreckage  explained 
that  grimly.  It  was  now  his  routine  duty  to  collect  the  names  of 
the  dead  and  wounded,  and  such  details  as  he  could  elicit.  He 
went  about  it  briskly,  conscientiously,  and  with  distaste.  All 
this  would  go  to  the  claim  agent  of  the  road  eventually  and  might 
serve  to  mitigate  the  total  of  damages  exacted  of  the  company. 
Vaguely  Banneker  resented  such  probable  penalties  as  unfair; 
the  most  unremitting  watchfulness  could  not  have  detected  the 
subtle  undermining  of  that  fatal  boulder.  But  essentially  he  was 
not  interested  in  claims  and  damages.  His  sensitive  mind  hov 
ered  around  the  mystery  of  death ;  that  file  of  crumpled  bodies, 
the  woman  of  the  stilled  smile,  the  man  fondling  a  limp  hand, 
weeping  quietly.  Officially,  he  was  a  smooth-working  bit  of 
mechanism.  As  an  individual  he  probed  tragic  depths  to  which 
he  was  alien  otherwise  than  by  a  large  and  vague  sympathy. 
Facts  of  the  baldest  were  entered  neatly ;  but  in  the  back  of  his 
eager  brain  Banneker  was  storing  details  of  a  far  different  kind 
and  of  no  earthly  use  to  a  railroad  corporation. 

He  became  aware  of  some  one  waiting  at  his  elbow.  The 
lank  young  man  had  spoken  to  him  twice. 

"Well?  "said  Banneker  sharply.  "  Oh,  it's  you!  How  did  you 
get  back  so  soon?" 

"Under  the  hour,"  replied  the  other  with  pride.  "Your  mes 
sage  has  gone.  The  operator's  a  queer  duck.  Dealing  faro. 


16  Success 

Made  me  play  through  a  case  before  he'd  quit.  I  stung  him  for 
twenty.  Here's  some  stuff  I  thought  might  be  useful." 

From  a  cotton  bag  he  discharged  a  miscellaneous  heap  of 
patent  preparations;  salves,  ointments,  emollients,  liniments, 
plasters. 

"All  I  could  get,"  he  explained.  "No  drug-store  in  the  funny 
burg." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Banneker.  "You're  all  right.  Want  an 
other  job?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  lily  of  the  field  with  undiminished  good 
will. 

"Go  and  help  the  white- whiskered  old  boy  in  the  Pullman 
yonder." 

"Oh,  he'd  chase  me,"  returned  the  other  calmly.  "He's  my 
uncle.  He  thinks  I'm  no  use." 

"Does  he?  Well,  suppose  you  get  names  and  addresses  of  the 
slightly  injured  for  me,  then.  Here's  your  coat." 

"Tha-anks,"  drawled  the  young  man.  He  was  turning  away  to 
his  new  duties  when  a  thought  struck  him.  "Making  a  list?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes.  For  my  report." 

"Got  a  name  with  the  initials  I.  O.  W.?" 

Banneker  ran  through  the  roster  in  the  pocket-ledger.  "Not 
yet.  Some  one  that's  hurt  ?  " 

"Don't  know  what  became  of  her.  Peach  of  a  girl.  Black  hair, 
big,  sleepy,  black  eyes  with  a  fire  in  'em.  Dressed  right.  Travel 
ing  alone,  and  minding  feer  own  business,  too.  Had  a  stateroom 
in  that  Pullman  there  in  the  ditch.  Noticed  her  initials  on  her 
traveling-bag." 

"Have  you  seen  her  since  the  smash?" 

"Don't  know.  Got  a  kind  of  confused  recklection  of  seeing  her 
wobbling  around  at  the  side  of  the  track.  Can't  be  sure,  though. 
Might  have  been  me." 

"Might  have  been  you?  How  could  - 

"Wobbly,  myself.  Mixed  in  my  thinks.  When  I  came  to  I 
was  pretty  busy  putting  my  lunch,"  explained  the  other  with 
simple  realism.  "One  of  Mr.  Pullman's  seats  butted  me  in  the 


Enchantment  17 

stomach.  They  ain't  upholstered  as  soft  as  you'd  think  to  look 
at  'em.  I  went  reeling  around,  looking  for  Miss  I.  O.  W.,  she 
being  alone,  you  know,  and  I  thought  she  might  need  some 
looking  after.  And  I  had  that  idea  of  having  seen  her  with  her 
hand  to  her  head  dazed  and  running  —  yes ;  that's  it,  she  was 
running.  Wow!"  said  the  young  man  fervently.  " She  was  a 
pretty  thing!  You  don't  suppose — "  He  turned  hesitantly  to 
the  file  of  bodies,  now  decently  covered  with  sheets. 

For  a  grisly  instant  Banneker  thought  of  the  one  mangled 
monstrosity  —  that  to  have  been  so  lately  loveliness  and  charm, 
with  deep  fire  in  its  eyes  and  perhaps  deep  tenderness  and  pas 
sion  in  its  heart.  He  dismissed  the  thought  as  being  against  the 
evidence  and  entered  the  initials  in  his  booklet. 

"I'll  look  out  for  her,"  said  he.  "Probably  she's  forward 
somewhere." 

Without  respite  he  toiled  until  a  long  whistle  gave  notice  of  the 
return  of  the  locomotive  which  had  gone  forward  to  meet  the  de 
layed  special  from  Stanwood.  Human  beings  were  clinging  about 
it  in  little  clusters  like  bees;  physicians,  nurses,  officials,  and 
hospital  attendants.  The  dispatcher  from  Stanwood  listened  to 
Banneker's  brief  report,  and  sent  1dm  back  to  Manzanita,  with  a 
curt  word  of  approval  for  his  work. 

Banneker's  last  sight  of  the  wreck,  as  he  paused  at  the  curve, 
was  the  helpful  young  man  perched  on  the  rear  heap  of  wreckage 
which  had  been  the  observation  car,  peering  anxiously  into  its 
depths  ("Looking  for  I.  O.  W.  probably/'  surmised  the  agent), 
and  two  commercial  gentlemen  from  the  smoker  whiling  away  a 
commercially  unproductive  hiatus  by  playing  pinochle  on  a  suit 
case  held  across  their  knees.  Glancing  at  the  vast,  swollen,  blue- 
black  billows  rolling  up  the  sky,  Banneker  guessed  that  their 
game  would  be  shortly  interrupted. 

He  hoped  that  the  dead  would  not  get  wet. 


CHAPTER  III 

BACK  in  his  office,  Banneker  sent  out  the  necessary  wires,  and 
learned  from  westward  that  it  might  be  twelve  hours  before  the 
break  in  the  track  near  Stanwood  could  be  fixed  up.  Then  he 
settled  down  to  his  report. 

Like  his  earlier  telegram,  the  report  was  a  little  masterpiece 
of  concise  information.  Not  a  word  in  it  that  was  not  dry,  exact, 
meaningful.  This  was  the  more  to  the  writer's  credit  in  that  his 
brain  was  seething  with  impressions,  luminous  with  pictures, 
aflash  with  odds  and  ends  of  minor  but  significant  things  heard 
and  seen  and  felt.  It  was  his  first  inner  view  of  tragedy  and  of  the 
reactions  of  the  human  creature,  brave  or  stupid  or  merely  ab 
surd,  to  a  crisis.  For  all  of  this  he  had  an  outlet  of  expression. 

Taking  from  the  wall  a  file  marked  " Letters,  Private" — it 
was  5  S  0027,  and  one  of  his  most  used  purchases  —  he  extracted 
some  sheets  of  a  special  paper  and,  sitting  at  his  desk,  wrote  and 
wrote  and  wrote,  absorbedly,  painstakingly,  happily.  Wind 
swept  the  outer  world  into  a  vortex  of  wild  rain;  the  room 
boomed  and  trembled  with  the  reverberations  of  thunder.  Twice 
the  telegraph  instrument  broke  in  on  him;  but  these  matters 
claimed  only  the  outer  shell ;  the  soul  of  the  man  was  concerned 
with  committing  its  impressions  of  other  souls  to  the  secrecy  of 
white  paper,  destined  to  personal  and  inviolable  archives. 

Some  one  entered  the  waiting-room.  There  was  a  tap  on  his 
door.  Raising  his  head  impatiently,  Banneker  saw,  through  the 
window  already  dimming  with  the  gathering  dusk,  a  large  roan 
horse,  droopy  and  disconsolate  in  the  downpour.  He  jumped  up 
and  threw  open  his  retreat.  A  tall  woman,  slipping  out  of  a 
streaming  poncho,  entered.  The  simplicity,  verging  upon  coarse 
ness,  of  her  dress  detracted  nothing  from  her  distinction  of  bear 
ing. 

"  Is  there  trouble  on  the  line  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  voice  of  peculiar 
clarity. 

"Bad  trouble,  Miss  Camilla,"  answered  Banneker.  He  pushed 


Enchantment  19 

forward  a  chair,  but  she  shook  her  head.  "A  loosened  rock 
smashed  into  Number  Three  in  the  Cut.  Eight  dead,  and  a  lot 
more  in  bad  shape.  They've  got  doctors  and  nurses  from  Stan- 
wood.  But  the  track's  out  below.  And  from  what  I  get  on  the 
wire" —  he  nodded  toward  the  east  —  "it'll  be  out  above  before 
long." 

"I'd  better  go  up  there,"  said  she.  Her  lips  grew  bloodless  as 
she  spoke  and  there  was  a  look  of  effort  and  pain  in  her  face. 

"No ;  I  don't  think  so.  But  if  you'll  go  over  to  the  town  and 
see  that  Torrey  gets  his  place  cleaned  up  a  bit,  I  suppose  some 
of  the  passengers  will  be  coming  in  pretty  soon." 

She  made  a  quick  gesture  of  repulsion.  "  Women  can't  go  to 
Torrey's,"  she  said.  "It's  too  filthy.  Besides  — I'U  take  in  the 
women,  if  there  aren't  too  many  and  I  can  pick  up  a  buckboard 
in  Manzanita." 

He  nodded.  " That'll  be  better,  if  any  come  in.  Give  me  their 
names,  won't  you?  I  have  to  keep  track  of  them,  you  know." 

The  manner  of  the  two  was  that  of  familiars,  of  friends,  though 
there  was  a  touch  of  deference  in  Banneker's  bearing,  too  subtly 
personal  to  be  attributed  to  his  official  status.  He  went  out  to 
adjust  the  visitor's  poncho,  and,  swinging  her  leg  across  the 
Mexican  saddle  of  her  horse  with  the  mechanical  ease  of  one 
habituated  to  this  mode  of  travel,  she  was  off. 

Again  the  agent  returned  to  his  unofficial  task  and  was  in 
stantly  submerged  in  it.  Impatiently  he  interrupted  himself  to 
light  the  lamps  and  at  once  resumed  his  pen.  An  emphatic  knock 
at  his  door  only  caused  him  to  shake  his  head.  The  summons 
was  repeated.  With  a  sigh  Banneker  gathered  the  written  sheets, 
enclosed  them  in  5  S  0027,  and  restored  that  receptacle  to  its 
place.  Meantime  the  knocking  continued  impatiently,  presently 
pointed  by  a  deep  — 

"Any  one  inside  there?" 

"Yes,"  said  Banneker,  opening  to  face  the  bulky  old  man  who 
had  cared  for  the  wounded.  "  What's  wanted  ?  " 

Uninvited,  and  with  an  assured  air,  the  visitor  stepped  in 

"I  am  Horace  Vanney,"  he  announced. 

Banneker  waited. 


20  Success 

1 

"Do  you  know  my  name?" 

"No." 

In  no  wise  discountenanced  by  the  matter-of-fact  negative, 
Mr.  Vanney,  still  unsolicited,  took  a  chair.  "You  would  if  you 
read  the  newspapers,"  he  observed. 

"I  do." 

"The  New  York  papers,"  pursued  the  other,  benignly  ex 
planatory.  "It  doesn't  matter.  I  came  in  to  say  that  I  shall  make 
it  my  business  to  report  your  energy  and  efficiency  to  your  su 
periors." 

"T.hank  you,"  said  Banneker  politely. 

"And  I  can  assure  you  that  my  commendation  will  carry 
weight.  Weight,  sir." 

The  agent  accepted  this  with  a  nod,  obviously  unimpressed. 
In  fact,  Mr.  Vanney  suspected  with  annoyance,  he  was  listening 
not  so  much  to  these  encouraging  statements  as  to  some  un 
identified  noise  outside.  The  agent  raised  the  window  and  ad 
dressed  some  one  who  had  approached  through  the  steady  drive 
of  the  rain.  A  gauntleted  hand  thrust  through  the  window  a  slip 
of  paper  which  he  took.  As  he  moved,  a  ray  of  light  from  the 
lamp,  unblocked  by  his  shoulder,  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  person 
in  the  darkness,  illuminating  it  to  the  astounded  eyes  of  Mr. 
Horace  Vanney. 

"Two  of  them  are  going  home  with  me,"  said  a  voice.  "Will 
you  send  these  wires  to  the  addresses?" 

"All  right,"  replied  Banneker,  "and  thank  you.  Good-night." 

"Who  was  that?"  barked  Mr.  Vanney,  half  rising. 

"A  friend  of  mine." 

"I  would  swear  to  that  face."  He  seemed  quite  excited.  "I 
would  swear  to  it  anywhere.  It  is  unforgettable.  That  was  Ca 
milla  Van  Arsdale.  Was  she  in  the  wreck  ?  " 

"No." 

"Don't  tell  me  that  it  wasn't  she !  Don't  try  to  tell  me,  for  I 
won't  believe  it." 

"I'm  not  trying  to  tell  you  anything,'"  Banneker  pointed  out. 

"True;  you're  not.  You're  close-mcutiied  enough.  But  — 
Camilla  Van  Arsdale !  Incredible !  Does  she  live  here?" 


Enchantment  21 

"Here  or  hereabouts." 

"  You  must  give  me  the  address.  I  must  surely  go  and  see  her." 

"Are  you  a  friend  of  Miss  Van  Arsdale?" 

"I  could  hardly  say  so  much.  A  friend  of  her  family,  rather. 
She  would  remember  me,  I  am  sure.  And,  in  any  case,  she  would 
know  my  name.  Where  did  you  say  she  lived?" 

"I  don't  think  I  said." 

"Mystery-making!"  The  big  man's  gruffness  had  a  sugges 
tion  of  amusement  in  it.  "But  of  course  it  would  be  simple 
enough  to  find  out  from  town." 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Vanney,  Miss  Van  Arsdale  is  still  something  of 
an  invalid  —  " 

"After  all  these  years,"  interposed  the  other,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  ruminates  upon  a  marvel. 

" —  and  I  happen  to  know  that  it  isn't  well  for  —  that  is,  she 
doesn't  care  to  see  strangers,  particularly  from  New  York." 

The  old  man  stared.  "Are  you  a  gentleman?"  he  asked  with 
abrupt  surprise. 

"A  gentleman?"  repeated  Banneker,  taken  aback. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  visitor  earnestly.  "I  meant  no 
offense.  You  are  doubtless  quite  right.  As  for  any  intrusion,  I 
assure  you  there  will  be  none." 

Banneker  nodded,  and  with  that  nod  dismissed  the  subject 
quite  as  effectually  as  Mr.  Horace  Vanney  himself  could  have 
done.  "Did  you  attend  all  the  injured?"  he  asked. 

"All  the  serious  ones,  I  think." 

"  Was  there  a  young  girl  among  them,  dark  and  good-looking, 
whose  name  began  — 

"The  one  my  addle-brained  young  nephew  has  been  pestering 
me  about?  Miss  I.  O.  W.?" 

"Yes.  He  reported  her  to  me." 

"I  handled  no  such  case  that  I  recall.  Now,  as  to  your  own 
helpfulness,  I  wish  to  make  clear  that  I  appreciate  it." 

Mr.  Vanney  launched  into  a  flowery  tribute  of  the  after-dinner 
variety,  leaning  forward  to  rest  a  hand  upon  Banneker's  desk  as 
he  spoke.  When  the  speech  was  over  and  the  hand  withdrawn, 
something  remained  among  the  strewn  papers.  Banneker  re- 


22  Success 

garded  it  with  interest.  It  showed  a  blotch  of  yellow  upon  green 
and  a  capital  C.  Picking  it  up,  he  looked  from  it  to  its  giver. 

"A  little  tribute,"  said  that  gentleman:  "a  slight  recognition 
of  your  services."  His  manner  suggested  that  hundred-dollar 
bills  were  inconsiderable  trifles,  hardly  requiring  the  acknowl 
edgment  of  thanks. 

In  this  case  the  bill  did  not  secure  such  acknowledgment. 

"You  don't  owe  me  anything,"  stated  the  agent.  "I  can't 
take  this!" 

"What!  Pride?  Tut-tut." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Banneker. 

Finding  no  immediate  and  appropriate  answer  to  this  simple 
question,  Mr.  Vanney  stared. 

"The  company  pays  me.  There's  no  reason  why  you  should 
pay  me.  If  anything,  I  ought  to  pay  you  for  what  you  did  at  the 
wreck.  But  I'm  not  proposing  to.  Of  course  I'm  putting  in  my 
report  a  statement  about  your  help." 

Mr.  Vanney's  cheek  flushed.  Was  this  composed  young  hire 
ling  making  sport  of  him  ? 

"Tut-tut!"  he  said  again,  this  time  with  obvious  intent  to 
chide  in  his  manner.  "If  I  see  fit  to  signify  my  appreciation  — 
remember,  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your  father. " 

"Then  you  ought  to  have  better  judgment,"  returned  Ban 
neker  with  such  candor  and  good-humor  that  the  visitor  was 
fairly  discomfited. 

An  embarrassing  silence  —  embarrassing,  that  is,  to  the  older 
man ;  the  younger  seemed  not  to  feel  it  —  was  happily  inter 
rupted  by  the  advent  of  the  lily-clad  messenger. 

Hastily  retrieving  his  yellowback,  which  he  subjected  to  some 
furtive  and  occult  manipulations,  Mr.  Vanney,  after  a  few  words, 
took  his  departure. 

Banneker  invited  the  newcomer  to  take  the  chair  thus  vacated. 
As  he  did  so  he  brushed  something  to  the  floor  and  picked  it  up. 

"Hello!  What's  this?  Looks  like  a  hundred-bucker.  Yours?" 
He  held  out  the  bill. 

Banneker  shook  his  head.  "Your  uncle  left  it." 

"It  isn't  a  habit  of  his,"  replied  the  other. 


Enchantment  23 

"Give  it  to  him  for  me,  will  you?" 

"  Certainly.  Any  message  ?  " 

"No." 

The  newcomer  grinned.  "I  see,"  he  said.  "He'll  be  bored 
when  he  gets  this  back.  He  isn't  a  bad  old  bird,  but  he  don't 
savvy  some  things.  So  you  turned  him  down,  did  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  he  offer  you  a  job  and  a  chance  to  make  your  way  in  the 
world  in  one  of  his  banks,  beginning  at  ten-per  ?  " 

"No." 

"He  will  to-morrow." 

"I  doubt  it."  < 

The  other  gave  a  thought  to  the  bill.  "Perhaps  you're  right. 
He  likes  'em  meek  and  obedient.  He'd  make  a  woolly  lamb  out 
of  you.  Most  fellows  would  jump  at  the  chance." 

"I  won't." 

"My  name's  Herbert  Cressey."  He  handed  the  agent  a  card. 
"  Philadelphia  is  my  home,  but  my  New  York  address  is  on  there, 
too.  Ever  get  East?" 

"I've  been  to  Chicago." 

"Chicago?"  The  other  stared.  "What's  that  got  to  do  with 
—  Oh,  I  see.  You'll  be  coming  to  New  York  one  of  these  days, 
though." 

"Maybe." 

"Sure  as  a  gun.  A  chap  that  can  handle  a  situation  like  you 
handled  the  wreck  isn't  going  to  stick  in  a  little  sand-heap  like 
this." 

"It  suits  me  here." 

"Nol  Does  it?  I'd  think  you'd  die  of  it.  Well,  when  you  do 
get  East  look  me  up,  will  you?  I  mean  it ;  I'd  like  to  see  you." 

"All  right." 

"And  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you  any  time,  drop  me  a 
line." 

The  sumptuous  ripple  and  gleam  of  the  young  man's  faultless 
coat,  registered  upon  Banneker's  subconscious  memory  as  it  had 
fallen  at  his  feet,  recalled  itself  to  him. 

"What  store  do  you  buy  your  clothes  at?" 


24  Success 

"Store?"  Cressey  did  not  smile.  " I  don't  buy  'em  at  a  store. 
I  have  'em  made  by  a  tailor.  Mertoun,  505  Fifth  Avenue." 

"Would  he  make  me  a  suit?" 

"Why,  yes.  I'll  give  you  a  card  to  him  and  you  go  in  there 
when  you're  in  New  York  and  pick  out  what  you  want." 

"Oh !  He  wouldn't  make  them  and  send  them  out  here  to  me? 
Sears-Roebuck  do,  if  you  send  your  measure.  They're  in 
Chicago." 

"I  never  had  any  duds  built  in  Chicago,  so  I  don't  know  them. 
But  I  shouldn't  think  Mertoun  would  want  to  fit  a  man  he'd 
never  seen.  They  like  to  do  things  right,  at  Mertoun's.  Ought 
to,  too ;  they  stick  you  enough  for  it." 

"How  much?" 

"Not  much  short  of  a  hundred  for  a  sack  suit." 

Banneker  was  amazed.  The  choicest  "made-to-measure"  in 
his  Universal  Guide,  "  Snappy,  fashionable,  and  up  to  the  min 
ute,"  came  to  less  than  half  of  that. 

His  admiring  eye  fell  upon  his  visitor's  bow-tie,  faultless  and 
underanged  throughout  the  vicissitudes  of  that  arduous  day,  and 
he  yearned  to  know  whether  it  was  " made-up"  or  self-confected. 
Sears-Roebuck  were  severely  impartial  as  between  one  practice 
and  the  other,  offering  a  wide  range  in  each  variety.  He  inquired. 

"Oh,  tied  it  myself,  of  course,"  returned  Cressey.  "Nobody 
wears  the  ready-made  kind.  It's  no  trick  to  do  it.  I'll  show  you, 
any  time." 

They  fell  into  friendly  talk  about  the  wreck. 

It  was  ten-thirty  when  Banneker  finished  his  much-interrupted 
writing.  Going  out  to  the  portable  house,  he  lighted  an  oil-stove 
and  proceeded  to  make  a  molasses  pie.  He  was  due  for  a  busy 
day  on  the  morrow  and  might  not  find  time  to  take  the  mile  walk 
to  the  hotel  for  dinner,  as  was  his  general  habit.  With  the  store 
of  canned  goods  derived  from  the  mail-order  catalogue,  he  could 
always  make  shift  to  live.  Besides,  he  was  young  enough  to  relish 
keenly  molasses  pie  and  the  manufacture  of  it.  Having  concluded 
his  cookery  in  strict  accordance  with  the  rules  set  forth  in  the 
guide  to  this  art,  he  laid  it  out  on  the  sill  to  cool  over  night. 

Tired  though  he  was,  his  brain  was  too  busy  for  immediate 


Enchantment  25 

sleep.  He  returned  to  his  den,  drew  out  a  book  and  began  to 
read  with  absorption.  That  in  which  he  now  sought  release  and 
distraction  was  not  the  magnum  opus  of  Messrs.  Sears-Roebuck, 
but  the  work  of  a  less  practical  and  popular  writer,  being  in  fact 
the  "Eve  of  St.  Agnes,"  by  John  Keats.  Soothed  and  dreamy, 
he  put  out  the  lights,  climbed  to  his  living  quarters  above  the 
office,  and  fell  asleep.  It  was  then  eleven-thirty  and  his  official 
day  had  terminated  five  hours  earlier. 

At  one  o'clock  he  arose  and  patiently  descended  the  stairs 
again.  Some  one  was  hammering  on  the  door.  He  opened  with 
out  inquiry,  which  was  not  the  part  of  wisdom  in  that  country 
and  at  that  hour.  His  pocket-flash  gleamed  on  a  thin  young  man 
in  a  black-rubber  coat  who,  with  head  and  hands  retracted  as 
far  as  possible  from  the  pouring  rain,  resembled  a  disconsolate 
turtle  with  an  insufficient  carapace. 

"I'm  Gardner,  of  the  Angelica  City  Herald,"  explained  the 
untimely  visitor. 

Banneker  was  surprised.  That  a  reporter  should  come  all  the 
way  from  the  metropolis  of  the  Southwest  to  his  wreck  —  he  had 
already  established  proprietary  interest  in  it  —  was  gratifying. 
Furthermore,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  he  was  glad  to  see  a  jour 
nalist.  He  took  him  in  and  lighted  up  the  office. 

"Had  to  get  a  horse  and  ride  to  Manzanita  to  interview  old 
Vanney  and  a  couple  of  other  big  guys  from  the  East.  My  first 
story's  on  the  wire,"  explained  the  newcomer  offhand.  "I  want 
some  local-color  stuff  for  my  second  day  follow-up." 

"It  must  be  hard  to  do  that,"  said  Banneker  interestedly, 
"when  you  haven't  seen  any  of  it  yourself." 

"Patchwork  and  imagination,"  returned  the  other  wearily. 
"That's  what  I  get  special  rates  for.  Now,  if  I'd  had  your  chance, 
right  there  on  the  spot,  with  the  whole  stage-setting  around  one 
—  Lordy !  How  a  fellow  could  write  that !" 

"Not  so  easy,"  murmured  the  agent.  "You  get  confused. 
It's  a  sort  of  blur,  and  when  you  come  to  put  it  down,  little  things 
that  aren't  really  important  come  up  to  the  surface  — 

"Put  it  down?"  queried  the  other  with  a  quick  look.  "Oh, 
I  see.  Your  report  for  the  company." 


26  Success 


"Well,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that." 

"Do  you  write  other  things?"  asked  the  reporter  carelessly. 

"Oh,  just  foolery."  The  tone  invited  —  at  least  it  did  not  dis 
courage  —  further  inquiry.  Mr.  Gardner  was  bored.  Amateurs 
who  "occasionally  write"  were  the  bane  of  him  who,  having  a 
signature  of  his  own  in  the  leading  local  paper,  represented  to  the 
aspiring  mind  the  gilded  and  lofty  peaks  of  the  unattainable. 
However  he  must  play  this  youth  as  a  source  of  material. 

"Ever  try  for  the  papers?" 

"Not  yet.  I've  thought  maybe  I  might  get  a  chance  sometime 
as  a  sort  of  local  correspondent  around  here,"  was  the  diffident 
reply. 

Gardner  repressed  a  grin.  Manzanita  would  hardly  qualify  as 
a  news  center.  Diplomacy  prompted  him  to  state  vaguely  that 
there  was  always  a  chance  for  good  stuff  locally. 

"On  a  big  story  like  this,"  he  added,  "of  course  there'd  be 
nothing  doing  except  for  the  special  man  sent  out  to  cover  it." 

"No.  Well,  I  didn't  write  my  —  what  I  wrote,  with  any  idea 
of  getting  it  printed." 

The  newspaper  man  sighed  wearily,  sighed  like  a  child  and  lied 
like  a  man  of  duty.  "I'd  like  to  see  it." 

Without  a  trace  of  hesitation  or  self-consciousness  Banneker 
said,  "All  right,"  and,  taking  his  composition  from  its  docket, 
motioned  the  other  to  the  light.  Mr.  Gardner  finished  and  turned 
the  first  sheet  before  making  any  observation.  Then  he  bent  a 
queer  look  upon  Banneker  and  grunted  : 

"What  do  you  call  this  stuff,  anyway?" 

"Just  putting  down  what  I  saw." 

Gardner  read  on.  "What  about  this,  about  a  Pullman  sleeper 
'  elegant  as  a  hotel  bar  and  rigid  as  a  church  pew '  ?  Where  do  you 
get  that?" 

Banneker  looked  startled.  "I  don't  know.  It  just  struck  me 
that  is  the  way  a  Pullman  is." 

"Well,  it  is,"  admitted  the  visitor,  and  continued  to  read. 
"And  this  guy  with  the  smashed  finger  that  kept  threatening  to 
'soom' ;  is  that  right?" 

"Of  course  it's  right.  You  don't  think  I'd  make  it  up !  That 


Enchantment  27 

reminds  me  of  something."  And  he  entered  a  memo  to  see  the 
litigious-minded  complainant  again,  for  these  are  the  cases 
which  often  turn  up  in  the  courts  with  claims  for  fifty- thousand- 
dollar  damages  and  heartrending  details  of  all-but-mortal  in 
ternal  injuries. 

Silence  held  the  reader  until  he  had  concluded  the  seventh  and 
last  sheet.  Not  looking  at  Banneker,  he  said : 

"So  that's  your  notion  of  reporting  the  wreck  of  the  swellest 
train  that  crosses  the  continent,  is  it?" 

"It  doesn't  pretend  to  be  a  report,"  disclaimed  the  writer. 
"It's  pretty  bad,  is  it?" 

"It's  rotten !"  Gardner  paused.  "From  a  news-desk  point  of 
view.  Any  copy-reader  would  chuck  it.  Unless  I  happened  to 
sign  it,"  he  added.  "Then  they'd  cuss  it  out  and  let  it  pass,  and 
the  dear  old  pin-head  public  would  eat  it  up." 

"If  it's  of  any  use  to  you  — " 

"Not  so,  my  boy,  not  so  !  I  might  pinch  your  wad  if  you  left  it 
around  loose,  or  even  your  last  cigarette,  but  not  your  stuff. 
Let  me  take  it  along,  though  ;  it  may  give  me  some  ideas.  I'll  re 
turn  it.  Now,  where  can  I  get  a  bed  in  the  town? " 

"Nowhere.  Everything's  filled.  But  I  can  give  you  a  ham 
mock  out  in  my  shack." 

"That's  better.  I'll  take  it.  Thanks." 

Banneker  kept  his  guest  awake  beyond  the  limits  of  decent 
hospitality,  asking  him  questions. 

The  reporter,  constantly  more  interested  in  this  unexpected 
find  of  a  real  personality  in  an  out-of-the-way  minor  station  of  the 
high  desert,  meditated  a  character  study  of  "the  hero  of  the 
wreck,"  but  could  not  quite  contrive  any  peg  whereon  to  hang 
the  wreath  of  heroism.  By  his  own  modest  account,  Banneker 
had  been  competent  but  wholly  unpicturesque,  though  the  char 
acters  in  his  sketch,  rude  and  unformed  though  it  was,  stood  out 
clearly.  As  to  his  own  personal  history,  the  agent  was  unrespon 
sive.  At  length  the  guest,  apologizing  for  untimely  weariness,  it 
being  then  3.15  A.M.,  yawned  his  way  to  the  portable  shack. 

He  slept  heavily,  except  for  a  brief  period  when  the  rain  let  up. 
In  the  morning  —  which  term  seasoned  newspaper  men  apply  to 


28  Success 

twelve  noon  and  the  hour  or  two  thereafter  —  he  inquired  of 
Banneker, 

"Any  tramps  around  here?" 

"No,"  answered  the  agent.  "Not  often.  There  were  a  pair 
yesterday  morning,  but  they  went  on." 

"Some  one  was  fussing  around  the  place  about  first  light.  I 
was  too  sleepy  to  get  up.  I  yipped  and  they  beat  it.  I  don't  think 
they  got  inside." 

Banneker  investigated.  Nothing  was  missing  from  within  the 
shack.  But  outside  he  made  a  distressing  discovery. 

His  molasses  pie  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"To  accomplisn  a  dessert  as  simple  and  inexpensive  as  it  is 
tasty,"  prescribes  The  Complete  Manual  of  Cookery,  p.  48, 
''take  one  cup  of  thick  molasses  —  "  But  why  should  I  infringe 
a  copyright  when  the  culinary  reader  may  acquire  the  whole 
range  of  kitchen  lore  by  expending  eighty-nine  cents  plus  postage 
on  39  T  337?  Bannekerhad  faithfully  followed  the  prescribed 
instructions.  The  result  had  certainly  been  simple  and  inexpen 
sive  ;  presumably  it  would  have  proven  tasty.  He  regretted  and 
resented  the  rape  of  the  pie.  What  aroused  greater  concern, 
however,  was  the  presence  of  thieves.  In  the  soft  ground  near  the 
window  he  found  some  rather  small  footprints  which  suggested 
that  it  was  the  younger  of  the  two  hoboes  who  had  committed 
the  depredation. 

Theorizing,  however,  was  not  the  order  of  his  day.  Routine 
and  extra-routine  claimed  all  his  time.  There  was  his  supple 
mentary  report  to  make  out;  the  marooned  travelers  in  Man^ 
zanita  to  be  looked  after  and  their  bitter  complaints  to  be  listened 
to ;  consultations  over  the  wire  as  to  the  condition  and  probabili 
ties  of  the  roadbed,  for  the  floods  had  come  again ;  and  in  and  oui 
of  it  all,  the  busy,  weary,  indefatigable  Gardner,  giving  to  the 
agent  as  much  information  as  he  asked  from  him.  When  their 
final  lists  were  compared,  Banneker  noticed  that  there  was  no 
name  with  the  initials  I.  O.  W.  on  Gardner's.  He  thought  of 
mentioning  the  clue,  but  decided  that  it  was  of  too  little  definite- 
ness  and  importance.  The  news  value  of  mystery,  enhanced  by 
youth  and  beauty,  which  the  veriest  cub  who  had  ever  smelled 
printer's  ink  would  have  appreciated,  was  a  sealed  book  to  him. 

Not  until  late  that  afternoon  did  a  rescue  train  limp  cautiously 
along  an  improvised  track  to  set  the  interrupted  travelers  on 
their  way.  Gardner  went  on  it,  leaving  an  address  and  an  invita 
tion  to  "keep  in  touch."  Mr.  Vanney  took  his  departure  with  a 
few  benign  and  well-chosen  words  of  farewell,  accompanied  by 
the  assurance  that  he  would  "make  it  his  special  purpose  to  com- 


30  Success 

mend,"  and  so  on.  His  nephew,  Herbert  Cressey,  the  lily-clad 
messenger,  stopped  at  the  station  to  shake  hands  and  grin  rather 
vacantly,and  adjureBanneker,whom  headdressed  as" old  chap," 
to  be  sure  and  look  him  up  in  the  East ;  he'd  be  glad  to  see  him 
any  time.  Banneker  believed  that  he  meant  it.  He  promised  to 
do  so,  though  without  particular  interest.  With  the  others  de 
parted  Miss  Camilla  Van  Arsdale's  two  emergency  guests,  one  of 
them  the  rather  splendid  young  woman  who  had  helped  with  the 
wounded.  They  invaded  Banneker's  office  with  supplementary 
telegrams  and  talked  about  their  hostess  with  that  freedom 
which  women  of  the  world  use  before  dogs  or  uniformed  officials. 

"What  a  woman !"  said  the  amateur  nurse. 

"And  what  a  house!"  supplemented  the  other,  a  faded  and 
lined  middle-aged  wife  who  had  just  sent  a  reassuring  and  very 
long  wire  to  a  husband  in  Pittsburgh. 

"Very  much  the  chatelaine;  grande  dame  and  that  sort  of 
thing,"  pursued  the  other.  "One  might  almost  think  her  Eng 
lish." 

"No."  The  other  shook  her  head  positively.  "Old  American. 
As  old  and  as  good  as  her  name.  You  wouldn't  flatter  her  by 
guessing  her  to  be  anything  else.  I  dare  say  she  would  consider 
the  average  British  aristocrat  a  little  shoddy  and  loud." 

"So  they  are  when  they  come  over  here.  But  what  on  earth  is 
her  type  doing  out  here,  buried  with  a  one-eyed,  half-breed  man 
servant?" 

"And  a  concert  grand  piano.  Don't  forget  that.  She  tunes  it 
herself,  too.  Did  you  notice  the  tools?  A  possible  romance. 
You've  quite  a  nose  for  such  things,  Sue.  Couldn't  you  get  any 
thing  out  of  her  ?  " 

"It's  much  too  good  a  nose  to  put  in  the  crack  of  a  door," 
retorted  the  pretty  woman.  "  I  shouldn't  care  to  lay  myself  open 
to  being  snubbed  by  her.  It  might  be  painful." 

"It  probably  would."  The  Pittsburgher  turned  to  Banneker 
with  a  change  of  tone,  implying  that  he  could  not  have  taken  any 
possible  heed  of  what  went  before.  "  Has  Miss  Van  Arsdale  lived 
here  long,  do  you  know?" 

The  agent  looked  at  her  intently  for  a  moment  before  replying : 


Enchantment  31 

"Longer  than  I  have."  He  transferred  his  gaze  to  the  pretty 
woman.  "You  two  were  her  guests,  weren't  you?"  he  asked. 

The  visitors  glanced  at  each  other,  half  amused,  half  aghast. 
The  tone  and  implication  of  the  question  had  been  too  significant 
to  be  misunderstood.  "Well,  of  all  extraordinary  —  "  began  one 
of  them  under  her  breath;  and  the  other  said  more  loudly,  "I 
really  beg  — "  and  then  she,  too,  broke  off. 

They  went  out.  "Chatelaine  and  knightly  defender,"  com 
mented  the  younger  one  in  the  refuge  of  the  outer  office.  "Have 
we  been  dumped  off  a  train  into  the  midst  of  the  Middle  Ages  ? 
Where  do  you  get  station-agents  like  that?" 

"The  one  at  our  suburban  station  chews  tobacco  and  says 
'Marm'  through  his  nose." 

Banneker  emerged,  seeking  the  conductor  of  the  special  with  a 
message. 

"He  is  rather  a  beautiful  young  thing,  isn't  he?"  she  added. 

Returning,  he  helped  them  on  the  train  with  their  hand-lug 
gage.  When  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  dispatching  an  extra 
were  over,  he  sat  down  to  think.  But  not  of  Miss  Camilla  Van 
Arsdale.  That  was  an  old  story,  though  its  chapters  were  few, 
and  none  of  them  as  potentially  eventful  as  this  intrusion  of 
Vanneys  and  female  chatterers. 

It  was  the  molasses  pie  that  stuck  in  his  mind.  There  was  no 
time  to  make  another.  Further,  the  thought  of  depredators  hang 
ing  about  disturbed  him.  That  shack  of  his  was  full  of  Aladdin 
treasures,  delivered  by  the  summoned  genii  of  the  Great  Book. 
Though  it  was  secured  by  Little  Guardian  locks  and  fortified  with 
the  Scarem  Buzz  alarm,  he  did  not  feel  sure  of  it.  He  decided  to 
sleep  there  that  night  with  his  .45-caliber  Sure-shot  revolver. 
Let  them  come  again ;  he'd  give  'em  a  lesson !  On  second  thought, 
he  rebaited  the  window-ledge  with  a  can  of  Special  Juicy  Apricot 
Preserve.  At  ten  o'clock  he  turned  in,  determined  to  sleep 
lightly,  and  immediately  plunged  into  fathomless  depths  of  un 
consciousness,  lulled  by  a  singing  wind  and  the  drone  of  the  rain. 

A  light,  flashing  across  his  eyes,  awakened  him.  For  a  moment 
he  lay,  dazed,  confused  by  the  gentle  and  unfamiliar  oscillations 
at  his  hammock.  Another  flicker  of  light  and  a  rumble  of  thunder 


32  Success 

brought  him  to  his  full  senses.  The  rain  had  degenerated  into  a 
casual  drizzle  and  the  wind  had  withdrawn  into  the  higher  areas. 
He  heard  some  one  moving  outside. 

Very  quietly  he  reached  out  to  the  stand  at  his  elbow,  got  his 
revolver  and  his  flashlight,  and  slipped  to  the  floor.  The  male 
factor  without  was  approaching  the  window.  Another  flash  of 
lightning  would  have  revealed  much  to  Banneker  had  he  not 
been  crouching  close  under  the  sill,  on  the  inside,  so  that  the 
radiance  of  his  light,  when  he  found  the  button,  should  not 
expose  him  to  a  straight  shot. 

A  hand  fumbled  at  the  open  window.  Finger  on  trigger,  Ban 
neker  held  up  his  flash-light  in  his  left  hand  and  irradiated  the 
spot.  He  saw  the  hand,  groping,  and  on  one  of  its  fingers  some 
thing  which  returned  a  more  brilliant  gleam  than  the  electric  ray. 
In  his  crass  amazement,  the  agent  straightened  up,  a  full  mark 
for  murder,  staring  at  a  diamond-and-ruby  ring  set  upon  a  short, 
delicate  finger. 

No  sound  came  from  outside.  But  the  hand  became  instantly 
*ense.  It  fell  upon  the  sill  and  clutched  it  so  hard  that  the 
knuckles  stood  out,  white,  strained  and  garish.  Banneker's  own 
strong  hand  descended  upon  the  wrist.  A  voice  said  softly  and 
tremulously : 

"  Please!" 

The  appeal  went  straight  to  Banneker's  heart  and  quivered 
there,  like  a  soft  flame,  like  music  heard  in  an  unrealizable 
dream. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked,  and  the  voice  said: 

"Don't  hurt  me." 

"Why  should  I?"  returned  Banneker  stupidly. 

"  Some  one  did,"  said  the  voice. 

"Who?"  he  demanded  fiercely. 

"Won't  you  let  me  go?"  pleaded  the  voice. 

In  the  shock  of  his  discovery  he  had  released  the  flash-lever  so 
that  this  colloquy  passed  in  darkness.  Now  he  pressed  it.  A 
girlish  figure  was  revealed,  one  protective  arm  thrown  across  the 
eyes. 

"Don't  strike  me,"  said  the  girl  again,  and  again  Banneker's 


Enchantment  33 

heart  was  shaken  within  him  by  such  tremors  as  the  crisis  of 
some  deadly  fear  might  cause. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  stammered. 

"I've  never  been  afraid  before,"  she  said,  hanging  her  weight 
away  from  him.  "  Won't  you  let  me  go  ?  " 

His  grip  relaxed  slightly,  then  tightened  again.  "Where  to?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  appealing  voice  mournfully. 

An  inspiration  came  to  Banneker.  "Are  you  afraid  of  me?" 
he  asked  quietly. 

"Of  everything.  Of  the  night." 

He  pressed  the  flash  into  her  hand,  turning  the  light  upon  him 
self.  "Look,"  he  said. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  could  not  fail  to  read  in  his  face  the 
profound  and  ardent  wish  to  help  her ;  to  comfort  and  assure  an 
uneasy  and  frightened  spirit  wandering  in  the  night. 

He  heard  a  little,  soft  sigh.  "  I  don't  know  you,"  said  the  voice. 
"Dol?" 

"No,"  he  answered  soothingly  as  if  to  a  child.  "I'm  the 
station-agent  here.  You  must  come  in  out  of  the  wet." 

"Very  well." 

He  tossed  an  overcoat  on  over  his  pajamas,  ran  to  the  door 
and  swung  it  open.  The  tiny  ray  of  light  advanced,  hesitated, 
advanced  again.  She  walked  into  the  shack,  and  immediately 
the  rain  burst  again  upon  the  outer  world.  Banneker's  fleeting 
impression  was  of  a  vivid  but  dimmed  beauty.  He  pushed  for 
ward  a  chair,  found  a  blanket  for  her  feet,  lighted  the  "Quick- 
heater"  oil-stove  on  which  he  did  his  cooking.  She  followed  him 
with  her  eyes,  deeply  glowing  but  vague  and  troubled. 

"This  is  not  a  station,"  she  said. 

"No.  It's  my  shack.  Are  you  cold?" 

"Not  very."  She  shivered  a  little. 

"  You  say  that  some  one  hurt  you?  " 

"Yes.  They  struck  me.  It  made  my  head  feel  queer." 

A  murderous  fury  surged  into  his  brain.  His  hand  twitched 
toward  his  revolver. 

"The  hoboes,"  he  whispered  under  his  breath.  "But  they 
didn't  rob  you,"  he  said  aloud,  looking  at  the  jeweled  hand. 


34  Success 

"No.  I  don't  think  so.  I  ran  away." 

" Where  was  it?" 

"On  the  train." 

Enlightenment  burst  upon  him.  "You're  sure — "  he  began. 
Then,  "Tell  me  all  you  can  about  it." 

"I  don't  remember  anything.  I  was  in  my  stateroom  in  the 
car.  The  door  was  open.  Some  one  must  have  come  in  and  struck 
me.  Here."  She  put  her  left  hand  tenderly  to  her  head. 

Banneker,  leaning  over  her,  only  half  suppressed  a  cry.  Back 
of  the  temple  rose  a  great,  puffed,  leaden-blue  wale. 

"Sit  still,"  he  said.  "I'll  fix  it." 

While  he  busied  himself  heating  water,  getting  out  clean 
bandages  and  gauze,  she  leaned  back  with  half-closed  eyes  in 
which  there  was  neither  fear  nor  wonder  nor  curiosity :  only  a 
still  content.  Banneker  washed  the  wound  very  carefully. 

"Does  it  hurt?"  he  asked. 

"My  head  feels  queer.  Inside." 

"I  think  the  hair  ought  to  be  cut  away  around  the  place. 
Right  here.  It's  quite  raw." 

It  was  glorious  hair.  Not  black,  as  Cressey  had  described  it  in 
his  hasty  sketch  of  the  unknown  I.  O.  W. ;  too  alive  with  gleams 
and  glints  of  luster  for  that.  Nor  were  her  eyes  black,  but  rather 
of  a  deep-hued,  clouded  hazel,  showing  troubled  shadows  be 
tween  their  dark-lashed,  heavy  lids.  Yet  Banneker  made  no 
doubt  but  that  this  was  the  missing  girl  of  Cressey's  inquiry 

"May  I?"  he  said. 

"Cut  my  hair?"  she  asked.  "Oh,  no  !" 

"Just  a  little,  in  one  place.  I  think  I  can  do  it  so  that  it  won't 
show.  There's  so  much  of  it." 

"Please,"  she  answered,  yielding. 

He  was  deft.  She  sat  quiet  and  soothed  under  his  ministerings. 
Completed,  the  bandage  looked  not  too  unworkmanlike,  and  was 
cool  and  comforting  to  the  hot  throb  of  the  wound. 

"Our  doctor  went  back  on  the  train,  worse  luck !"  he  said. 

"I  don't  want  any  other  doctor,"  she  murmured.  "I'd  rather 
have  you." 

"But  I'm  not  a  doctor." 


Enchantment  35 

"No,"  she  acquiesced.  "Who  are  you?  Did  you  tell  me? 
You  are  one  of  the  passengers,  aren't  you?" 

"I'm  the  station-agent  at  Manzanita." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  "Are  you?  I 
don't  seem  to  understand.  My  head  is  very  queer." 

"Don't  try  to.  Here's  some  tea  and  crackers." 

"I'm  starved,"  she  said. 

With  subtle  stirrings  of  delight,  he  watched  her  eat  the  bit 
that  he  had  prepared  for  her  while  heating  the  water.  But  he  was 
wise  enough  to  know  that  she  must  not  have  much  while  the 
extent  of  her  injury  was  still  undetermined. 

"Are  you  wet?"  he  inquired. 

She  nodded.  "I  haven't  been  dry  since  the  flood." 

"I  have  a  room  with  a  real  stove  in  it  over  the  station.  I'll 
build  a  fire,  and  you  must  take  off  your  wet  things  and  go  to  bed 
and  sleep.  If  you  need  anything  you  can  hammer  on  the  floor." 

"But  you  - 

"I'll  be  in  my  office,  below.  I'm  on  night  duty  to-night,"  said 
he,  tactfully  fabricating. 

"Very  well.  You're  awfully  kind." 

He  adjusted  the  oil-stove,  threw  a  warmed  blanket  over  her 
feet,  and  hurried  to  his  room  to  build  the  promised  fire.  When 
he  came  back  she  smiled. 

"You  are  good  to  me!  It's  stupid  of  me  —  my  head  is  so 
queer  —  did  you  say  you  were  — 

"The  station-agent.  My  name  is  Banneker.  I'm  responsible 
to  the  company  for  your  safety  and  comfort.  You're  not  to 
worry  about  it,  nor  think  about  it,  nor  ask  any  questions." 

"No,"  she  agreed,  and  rose. 

He  threw  the  blanket  around  her  shoulders.  At  the  protective 
touch  she  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm.  So  they  went  out 
into  the  night. 

Mounting  the  stairs,  she  stumbled,  and  for  a  moment  he  felt 
the  firm,  warm  pressure  of  her  body  against  him.  It  shook  him 
strangely. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  murmured.  And,  a  moment  later,  "Good 
night,  and  thank  you." 


36  Success 

Taking  the  hand  which  she  held  out,  he  returned  her  good 
night.  The  door  closed.  He  turned  away  and  was  halfway  down 
the  flight  when  a  sudden  thought  recalled  him.  He  tapped  on  the 
door. 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  the  serene  music  of  the  voice. 

"  I  don't  want  to  bother  you,  but  there's  just  one  thing  I  for 
got.  Please  give  me  your  name." 

"What  for?"  returned  the  voice  doubtfully. 

"I  must  report  it  to  the  company." 

"Must  you?"  The  voice  seemed  to  be  vaguely  troubled. 
"To-night?" 

"Don't  give  a  thought  to  it,"  he  said.  "To-morrow  will  do 
just  as  well.  I'm  sorry  to  have  troubled  you." 

"Good-night,"  she  said  again. 

"Can't  remember  her  own  name !"  thought  Banneker,  moved 
and  pitiful. 

Darkness  and  quiet  were  grateful  to  him  as  he  entered  the 
office.  By  sense  of  direction  he  found  his  chair,  and  sank  into  it. 
Overhead  he  could  hear  the  soft  sound  of  her  feet  moving  about 
the  room,  his  room.  Quiet  succeeded.  Banneker,  leagues  re 
moved  from  sleep,  or  the  hope  of  it,  despite  his  bodily  weari 
ness,  followed  the  spirit  of  wonder  through  starlit  and  sunlit 
realms  of  dream. 

The  telegraph-receiver  clicked.  Not  his  call.  But  it  brought 
him  back  to  actualities.  He  lighted  his  lamp  and  brought  down 
the  letter-file  from  which  had  been  extracted  the  description  of 
the  wreck  for  Gardner  of  the  Angelica  City  Herald. 

Drawing  out  the  special  paper,  he  looked  at  the  heading  and 
smiled.  "Letters  to  Nobody."  He  took  a  fresh  sheet  and  began 
to  write.  Through  the  night  he  wrote  and  dreamed  and  dozed 
and  wrote  again.  When  a  sound  of  song,  faint  and  sweet  and 
imminent,  roused  him  to  lift  his  sleep-bowed  head  from  the  desk 
upon  which  it  had  sunk,  the  gray,  soiled  light  of  a  stormy  morn 
ing  was  in  his  eyes.  The  last  words  he  had  written  were : 

"The  breast  of  the  world  rises  and  falls  with  your  breathing." 

Banneker  was  twenty-four  years  old,  and  had  the  untainted 
soul  of  a  boy  of  sixteen. 


CHAPTER  V 

OVERHEAD  she  was  singing.  The  voice  was  clear  and  sweet  and 
happy.  He  did  not  know  the  melody;  some  minor  refrain  of 
broken  rhythm  which  seemed  always  to  die  away  short  of  fulfill 
ment.  A  haunting  thing  of  mystery  and  glamour,  such  mystery 
and  glamour  as  had  irradiated  his  long  and  wonderful  night. 
He  heard  the  door  open  and  then  her  light  footsteps  on  the 
stair  outside.  Hot-eyed  and  disheveled,  he  rose,  staggering  a 
little  at  first  as  he  hurried  to  greet  her. 

She  stood  poised  on  the  lower  step. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  said. 

She  made  no  return  to  his  accost  other  than  a  slow  smile.  "I 
thought  you  were  a  dream,"  she  murmured. 

"No.  I'm  real  enough.  Are  you  better?  Your  head?" 

She  put  a  hand  to  the  bandage.  "It's  sore.  Otherwise  I'm 
quite  fit.  I've  slept  like  the  dead." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  replied  mechanically.  He  was  drink 
ing  her  in,  all  the  grace  and  loveliness  and  wonder  of  her,  him 
self  quite  unconscious  of  the  intensity  of  his  gaze. 

She  accepted  the  mute  tribute  untroubled ;  but  there  was  a 
suggestion  of  puzzlement  in  the  frown  which  began  to  pucker 
her  forehead. 

"You're  really  the  station-agent?"  she  asked  with  a  slight 
emphasis  upon  the  adverb. 

"Yes.  Why  not?" 

"Nothing.  No  reason.  Won't  you  tell  me  what  happened?" 

"Come  inside."  He  held  open  the  door  against  the  wind. 

"No.  It's  musty."  She  wrinkled  a  dainty  nose.  "Can't  we 
talk  here  ?  I  love  the  feel  of  the  air  and  the  wet.  And  the  world ! 
I'm  glad  I  wasn't  killed." 

"So  am  I,"  he  said  soberly. 

"When  my  brain  wouldn't  work  quite  right  yesterday,  I 
thought  that  some  one  had  hit  me.  That  isn't  so,  is  it?" 

"  No.  Your  train  was  wrecked.  You  were  injured.  In  the  con 
fusion  you  must  have  run  away." 


38  Success 

"Yes.  I  remember  being  frightened.  Terribly  frightened.  II 
never  been  that  way  before.  Outside  of  that  one  idea  of  fear, 
everything  was  mixed  up.  I  ran  until  I  couldn't  run  any  more 
and  dropped  down." 

" And  then?" 

"I  got  up  and  ran  again.  Have  you  ever  been  afraid?" 

"Plenty  of  times." 

"  I  hadn't  realized  before  that  there  was  anything  in  the  world 
to  be  afraid  of.  But  the  thought  of  that  blow,  coming  so  sud 
denly  from  nowhere,  and  the  fear  that  I  might  be  struck  again  — 
it  drove  me."  She  flung  out  her  hands  in  a  little  desperate  ges 
ture  that  twitched  at  Banneker's  breath. 

"You  must  have  been  out  all  night  in  the  rain.w 

"No.  I  found  a  sort  of  cabin  in  the  woods.  It  was  deserted." 

"Dutch  Cal's  place.  It's  only  a  few  rods  back  in." 

"I  saw  a  light  from  there  and  that  suggested  to  my  muddled 
brain  that  I  might  get  something  to  eat." 

"So  you  came  over  here." 

"Yes.  But  the  fear  came  on  me  again  and  I  didn't  dare  knock. 
I  suppose  I  prowled." 

"  Gardner  thought  he  heard  ghosts.  But  ghosts  don't  steal 
molasses  pie." 

She  looked  at  him  solemnly.  "Must  one  steal  to  get  anything 
to  eat  here?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  cried.  "I'll  get  you  breakfast  right  away. 
What  will  you  have?  There  isn't  much." 

"Anything  there  is.  But  if  I'm  to  board  with  you,  you  must 
let  me  pay  my  way." 

"The  company  is  responsible  for  that." 

Her  brooding  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  him.  "You  actually 
are  the  agent,"  she  mused.  "That's  quaint." 

"I  don't  see  anything  quaint  about  it.  Now,  if  you'll  make 
yourself  comfortable  I'll  go  over  to  the  shack  and  rustle  some 
thing  for  breakfast." 

"No ;  I'd  rather  go  with  you.  Perhaps  I  can  help." 

Such  help  as  the  guest  afforded  was  negligible.  When,  from 
sundry  of  the  Sears-Roebuck  cans  and  bottles,  a  condensed  and 


Enchantment  39 

preserved  sort  of  meal  Lad  been  derived,  she  set  to  it  with  a  good 
grace. 

''There's  more  of  a  Mck  in  tea  than  in  a  cocktail,  I  believe, 
when  you  really  need  it,"  she  remarked  gratefully.  "You  spoke 
of  a  Mr.  Gardner.  Who  is  he?" 

"A  reporter  who  spent  night  before  last  here." 

She  dropped  her  cracker,  oleomargarine-side  down.  "A  re 
porter?" 

"He  came  down  to  write  up  the  wreck.  It's  a  bad  one.  Nine 
dead,  so  far." 

"Is  he  still  here?" 

"No.  Gone  back  to  Angelica  City." 

Retrieving  her  cracker,  the  guest  finished  her  meal,  heartily 
but  thoughtfully.  She  insisted  on  lending  a  hand  to  the  washing- 
up  process,  and  complimented  Banneker  on  his  neatness. 

"You  haven't  told  me  your  name  yet,"  he  reminded  her  when 
the  last  shining  tin  was  hung  up. 

"No ;  I  haven't.  What  will  you  do  with  it  when  you  get  it?" 

"Report  it  to  the  company  for  their  lists." 

"Suppose  I  don't  want  it  reported  to  the  company?' 

"Why  on  earth  shouldn't  you?" 
.  "I  may  have  my  reasons.  Would  it  be  put  in  the  papers?" 

"Very  likely." 

"I  don't  want  it  in  the  papers,"  said  the  girl  with  decision. 

"Don't  you  want  it  known  that  you're  all  right?  Your 
people  - 

"I'll  wire  my  people.  Or  you  can  wire  them  for  me.  Can't 
you?" 

"Of  course.  But  the  company  has  a  right. to  know  what  has 
happened  to  its  passengers." 

"  Not  to  me !  What  has  the  company  done  for  me  but  wreck 
me  and  give  me  an  awful  bang  on  the  head  and  lose  my  baggage 
and  —  Oh,  I  nearly  forgot.  I  took  my  traveling-bag  when  I  ran. 
It's  in  the  hut.  I  wonder  if  you  would  get  it  for  me?" 

"Of  course.  I'll  go  now." 

"That's  good  of  you.  And  for  your  own  self,  but  not  your  old 
company,  I'll  tell  you  my  name.  I'm  — " 


Success 


"Wait  a  moment.  Whatever  you  tell  me  I'll  have  to  report." 

"You  can't,"  she  returned  imperiously.  "It's  in  confidence." 

"I  won't  accept  it  so." 

"You're  a  most  extraordinary  sta — a  most  extraordinary 
sort  of  man.  Then  I'll  give  you  this  much  for  yourself,  and  if 
your  company  collects  pet  names,  you  can  pass  it  on.  My  friends 
call  me  lo." 

"Yes.  I  know.  You're  I.  O.  W." 

"How  do  you  know  that?  And  how  much  more  do  you 
know?" 

"No  more.  A  man  on  the  train  reported  your  initials  from 
your  baggage." 

"  I'll  feel  ever  so  much  better  when  I  have  that  bag.  Is  there  a 
hotel  near  here?" 

"A  sort  of  one  at  Manzanita.  It  isn't  very  clean.  But  there'll 
be  a  train  through  to-night  and  I'll  get  you  space  on  that.  I'd 
better  get  a  doctor  for  you  first,  hadn't  I?" 

"No,  indeed!  All  I  need  is  some  fresh  things." 

Banneker  set  off  at  a  brisk  pace.  He  found  the  extravagant 
little  traveling-case  safely  closed  and  locked,  and  delivered  it 
outside  his  own  door  which  was  also  closed  and,  he  suspected, 
locked. 

"I'm  thinking,"  said  the  soft  voice  of  the  girl  within.  "Don't 
let  me  interrupt  your  work."  » 

Beneath,  at  his  routine,  Banneker  also  set  himself  to  think; 
confused,  bewildered,  impossibly  conjectural  thoughts  not  un- 
mingled  with  semi-official  anxiety.  Harboring  a  woman  on  com 
pany  property,  even  though  she  were,  in  some  sense,  a  charge  of 
the  company,  might  be  open  to  misconceptions.  He  wished  that 
the  mysterious  lo  would  declare  herself. 

At  noon  she  did.  She  declared  herself  ready  for  luncheon. 
There  was  about  her  a  matter-of-fact  acceptance  of  the  situation 
as  natural,  even  inevitable,  which  entranced  Banneker  when  it 
did  not  appall  him.  After  the  meal  was  over,  the  girl  seated  her 
self  on  a  low  bench  which  Banneker  had  built  with  his  own  hands 
and  the  Right-and-Ready  Tool  Kit  (9  T  603) ,  her  knee  between 
her  clasped  hands  and  an  elfish  expression  on  her  face. 


Enchantment  41 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  suggested,  "that  we'd  get  on  quicker 
if  you  washed  the  dishes  and  I  sat  here  and  talked  to  you  ?  " 

"Very  likely." 

"It  isn't  so  easy  to  begin,  you  know,"  she  remarked,  nursing 
her  knee  thoughtfully.  "Am  I  —  Do  you  find  me  very  much  in 
the  way?  " 

"No." 

"Don't  suppress  your  wild  enthusiasm  on  my  account,"  she 
besought  him.  "I  haven't  interfered  with  your  duties  so  far, 
have  I?" 

"No,"  answered  Banneker  wondering  what  was  coming  next. 

"You  see" —  her  tone  became  ruminative  and  confidential  — 
"if  I  give  you  my  name  and  you  report  it,  there'll  be  all  kinds  of 
a  mix-up.  They'll  come  after  me  and  take  me  away." 

Banneker  dropped  a  tin  on  the  floor  and  stood,  staring. 

"Isn't  that  what  you  want?" 

"It's  evident  enough  that  it's  what  you  want,"  she  returned, 
aggrieved. 

"No.  Not  at  all,"  he  disclaimed.  "Only  — well,  out  here  — 
alone  —  I  don't  understand." 

"Can't  you  understand  that  if  one  had  happened  to  drop  out 
of  the  world  by  chance,  it  might  be  desirable  to  stay  out  for  a 
while?" 

"For  you?  No;  I  can't  understand  that." 

"What  about  yourself?"  she  challenged  with  a  swift,  amused 
gleam.  "You  are  certainly  staying  out  of  the  world  here." 

"This  is  my  world." 

Her  eyes  and  voice  dropped.  "Truly?"  she  murmured.  Then, 
as  he  made  no  reply,  "It  isn't  much  of  a  world  for  a  man." 

To  this  his  response  touched  the  heights  of  the  unexpected. 
He  stretched  out  his  arm  toward  the  near  window  through 
which  could  be  seen  the  white  splendor  of  Mount  Carstairs, 
dim  in  the  wreathing  murk. 

"Lo!  For  there,  amidst  the  flowers  and  grasses, 
Only  the  mightier  movement  sounds  and  passes, 
Only  winds  and  rivers, 
Life  and  death." 

he  quoted. 


42  Success 

Her  eyes  glowed  with  sheer,  incredulous  astonishment.  "How 
came  you  by  that  Stevenson  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  Are  you  poet  as 
well  as  recluse?" 

"I  met  him  once." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"Some  other  time.  We've  other  things  to  talk  of  now." 

"Some  other  tune?  Then  I'm  to  stay !" 

"In  Manzanita?" 

"Manzanita?  No.  Here." 

"In  this  station?  Alone?  But  why—" 

"Because  I'm  lo  Welland  and  I  want  to,  and  I  always  get 
what  I  want,"  she  retorted  calmly  and  superbly. 

"Welland,"  he  repeated.  "Miss  I.  O.  Welland.  And  the  ad 
dress  is  New  York,  isn't  it?" 

Her  hands  grew  tense  across  her  knee,  and  deep  in  her  shad 
owed  eyes  there  was  a  flash.  But  her  voice  suggested  not  only 
appeal,  but  almost  a  hint  of  caress  as  she  said : 

"Are  you  going  to  betray  a  guest?  I've  always  heard  that 
Western  hospitality  — 

"You're  not  my  guest.  You're  the  company's." 

"And  you  won't  take  me  for  yours?" 

"Be  reasonable,  Miss  Welland." 

"I  suppose  it's  a  question  of  the  conventionalities,"  she 
mocked. 

"  I  don't  know  or  care  anything  about  the  conventionalities— 

"Nor  I,"  she  interrupted.  "Out  here." 

" — but  my  guess  would  be  that  they  apply  only  to  people 
who  live  in  the  same  world.  We  don't,  you  and  I." 

"That's  rather  shrewd  of  you,"  she  observed. 

"It  isn't  an  easy  matter  to  talk  about  to  a  young  girl,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  she  returned  with  composure.  "Just  take  it 
for  granted  that  I  know  about  all  there  is  to  be  known  and  am 
not  afraid  of  it.  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything,  I  think,  except  of  - 
of  having  to  go  back  just  now."  She  rose  and  went  to  him,  looking 
down  into  his  eyes.  "A  woman  knows  whom  she  can  trust  in  — 
in  certain  things.  That's  her  gif  t,agift  no  man  has  or  quite  under- 


Enchantment  43 

stands.  Dazed  as  I  was  last  night,  I  knew  I  could  trust  you.  I 
still  know  it.  So  we  may  dismiss  that." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Banneker,  "so  far  as  it  goes." 

"What  farther  is  there?  If  it's  a  matter  of  the  inconven 
ience  —  " 

"No.  You  know  it  isn't  that." 

*Then  let  me  stay  in  this  funny  little  shack  just  for  a  few 
days," she  pleaded.  "If  you  don't,  I'll  get  on  to-night's  train  and 
go  on  and  —  and  do  something  I'll  be  sorry  for  all  the  rest  of  my 
life.  And  it'll  be  your  fault !  I  was  going  to  do  it  when  the  acci 
dent  prevented.  Do  you  believe  in  Providence  ?  " 

"Not  as  a  butt-in,"  he  answered  promptly.  "I  don't  believe 
that  Providence  would  pitch  a  rock  into  a  train  and  kill  a  lot  of 
people,  just  to  prevent  a  girl  from  making  a  foo  —  a  bad  break." 

"Nor  I,"  she  smiled.  "I  suppose  there's  some  kind  of  a  Gen 
eral  Manager  over  this  queer  world ;  but  I  believe  He  plays  the 
game  fair  and  square  and  doesn't  break  the  rules  He  has  made 
Himself.  If  I  didn't,  I  wouldn't  want  to  play  at  all !. .  .Oh,  my 
telegram !  I  must  wire  my  aunt  in  New  York.  I'll  tell  her  that 
I've  stopped  off  to  visit  friends,  if  you  don't  object  to  that  de 
scription  as  being  too  compromising,"  she  added  mischievously. 
She  accepted  a  pad  which  he  handed  her  and  sat  at  the  table, 
pondering.  "Mr.  Banneker,"  she  said  after  a  moment. 

"Well?" 

"If  the  telegram  goes  from  here,  will  it  be  headed  by  the  name 
of  the  station?" 

"Yes." 

"So  that  inquiry  might  be  made  here  for  me?" 

"It  might,  certainly." 

"But  I  don't  want  it  to  be.  Couldn't  you  leave  off  the  sta 
tion?" 

"Not  very  well." 

"Just  for  me?"  she  wheedled.  "For  your  guest  that  you've 
been  so  insistent  on  keeping,"  she  added  slyly. 

"The  message  wouldn't  be  accepted." 

"Oh,  dear !  Then  I  won't  send  it." 

"If  you  don't  notify  your  family,  I  must  report  you  to  tb* 
company." 


44  Success 

"What  an  irritating  sense  of  duty  you  have !  It  must  be  dread 
ful  to  be  afflicted  that  way.  Can't  you  suggest  something?" 
she  flashed.  "Won't  you  do  a  thing  to  help  me  stay?  I  believe 
you  don't  want  me,  after  all." 

"If  the  up-train  gets  through  this  evening,  I'll  give  your  wire 
to  the  engineer  and  he'll  transmit  it  from  any  office  you  say." 

Childlike  with  pleasure  she  clapped  her  hands.  "Of  course! 
Give  him  this,  will  you? "  From  a  bag  at  her  wrist  she  extracted 
a  five-dollar  bill.  "By  the  way,  if  I'm  to  be  a  guest  I  must  be 
a  paying  guest,  of  course." 

"You  can  pay  for  a  cot  that  I'll  get  in  town,"  he  agreed,  "and 
your  share  of  the  food." 

"But  the  use  of  the  house,  and  —  and  all  the  trouble  I'm 
making  you,"  she  said  doubtfully.  "I  ought  to  pay  for  that." 

"Do  you  think  so?  "  He  looked  at  her  with  a  peculiar  expres 
sion  which,  however,  was  not  beyond  the  power  of  her  intuition 
to  interpret. 

"No ;  I  don't,"  she  declared. 

Banneker  answered  her  smile  with  his  own,  as  he  resumed  his 
dish-wiping.  lo  wrote  out  her  telegram  with  care.  Her  next  ob 
servation  startled  the  agent. 

"Are  you,  by  any  chance,  married?" 

"No;  I'm  not.  What  makes  you  ask  that?" 

"There's  been  a  woman  in  here  before." 

Confusedly  his  thoughts  flew  back  to  Carlo tta.  But  the 
Mexican  girl  had  never  been  in  the  shack.  He  was  quite  absurdly 
and  inexplicably  glad  now  that  she  had  not. 

"A  woman?"  he  said.  "Why  do  you  think  so?" 

"Something  in  the  arrangement  of  the  place.  That  hanging, 
yonder.  And  that  little  vase  —  it's  good,  by  the  way.  The  way 
that  Navajo  is  placed  on  the  door.  One  feels  it." 

"It's  true.  A  friend  of  mine  came  here  one  day  and  turned 
everything  topsy-turvy." 

"I'm  not  asking  questions  just  for  curiosity.  But  is  that  the 
reason  you  didn't  want  me  to  stay?" 

He  laughed,  thinking  of  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  "Heavens,  no! 
Wait  till  you  meet  her.  She's  a  very  wonderful  person ;  but  — " 


Enchantment  45 

"Meet  her?  Does  she  live  near  here,  then?" 

"A  few  miles  away." 

"Suppose  she  should  come  and  find  me  here?" 

"It's  what  I've  been  wishing." 

"Is  it !  Well,  it  isn't  what  I  wish  at  all." 

"In  fact,"  continued  the  imperturbable  Banneker,  "I  rather 
planned  to  ride  over  to  her  place  this  afternoon." 

"Why,  if  you  please?" 

"To  tell  her  about  you  and  ask  her  advice." 

lo's  face  darkened  rebelliously.  "Do  you  think  it  necessary  to 
tattle  to  a  woman  who  is  a  total  stranger  to  me?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  wise  to  get  her  view,"  he  replied,  un 
moved. 

"Well,  I  think  it  would  be  horrid.  I  think  if  you  do  any  such 
thing,  you  are  —  Mr.  Banneker !  You're  not  listening  to  me." 

"Some  one  is  coming  through  the  woods  trail,"  said  he. 

"Perhaps  it's  your  local  friend." 

"That's  my  guess." 

"Please  understand  this,  Mr.  Banneker,"  she  said  with  an 
obstinate  outthrust  of  her  little  chin.  "I  don't  know  who  your 
friend  is  and  I  don't  care.  If  you  make  it  necessary,  I  can  go  to 
the  hotel  in  town ;  but  while  I  stay  here  I  won't  have  my  affairs 
or  even  my  presence  discussed  with  any  one  else." 

"You're  too  late,"  said  Banneker. 

Out  from  a  hardly  discernible  opening  in  the  brush  shouldered 
a  big  roan.  Tossing  up  his  head,  he  stretched  out  in  the  long, 
easy  lope  of  the  desert-bred,  his  rider  sitting  him  loosely  and 
with  slack  bridle. 

"That's  Miss  Van  Arsdale,"  said  Banneker. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SEATED  in  her  saddle  the  newcomer  hailed  Banneker. 

"What  news,  Ban?  Is  the  wreck  cleared  up?" 

"Yes.  But  the  track  is  out  twenty  miles  east.  Every  arroyo 
and  barranca  is  bank-high  and  over." 

He  had  crossed  the  platform  to  her.  Now  she  raised  her  deep- 
set,  quiet  eyes  and  rested  them  on  the  girl.  That  the  station 
should  harbor  a  visitor  at  that  hour  was  not  surprising.  But  the 
beauty  of  the  stranger  caught  Miss  Van  Arsdale's  regard,  and 
her  bearing  held  it. 

"A  passenger,  Ban?"  she  asked,  lowering  her  voice. 

"Yes,  Miss  Camilla." 

"Left  over  from  the  wreck?" 

He  nodded.  "You  came  in  the  nick  of  time.  I  don't  quite 
know  what  to  do  with  her." 

"Why  didn't  she  go  on  the  relief  train?" 

"She  didn't  show  up  until  last  night." 

"Where  did  she  stay  the  night?" 

"Here." 

"In  your  office?" 

"In  my  room.  I  worked  in  the  office." 

"You  should  have  brought  her  to  me." 

"She  was  hurt.  Queer  in  the  head.  I'm  not  sure  that  she  isn't 
so  yet." 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  swung  her  tall  form  easily  out  of  the  saddle. 
The  girl  came  forward  at  once,  not  waiting  for  Banneker's  intro 
duction,  with  a  formal  gravity. 

"How  do  you  do?  I  am  Irene  Welland." 

The  older  woman  took  the  extended  hand.  There  was  courtesy 
rather  than  kindliness  in  her  voice  as  she  asked,  "Are  you  much 
hurt?" 

"I'm  quite  over  it,  thank  you.  All  but  the  bandage.  Mr. 
Banneker  was  just  speaking  of  you  when  you  rode  up,  Miss  Van 
Arsdale." 

The  other  smiled  wanly.  "It  is  a  little  startling  to  hear  one's 


Enchantment  47 

name  like  that,  in  a  voice  from  another  world.  When  do  you  go 
on?" 

"  Ah,  that's  a  point  under  discussion.  Mr.  Banneker  would,  I 
believe,  summon  a  special  train  if  he  could,  in  his  anxiety  to  get 
rid  of  me." 

"Not  at  all,"  disclaimed  the  agent. 

But  Miss  Van  Arsdale  interrupted,  addressing  the  girl : 

"You  must  be  anxious,  yourself,  to  get  back  to  civilization." 

"Why?"  returned  the  girl  lightly.  "This  seems  a  beautiful 
locality." 

"Were  you  traveling  alone?" 

The  girl  flushed  a  little,  but  her  eyes  met  the  question  without 
wavering.  "  Quite  alone." 

"To  the  coast?" 

"To  join  friends  there." 

"If  they  can  patch  up  the  washed-out  track,"  put  in  Banneker, 
"Number  Seven  ought  to  get  through  to-night." 

"And  Mr.  Banneker  in  his  official  capacity  was  almost  ready 
to  put  me  aboard  by  force,  when  I  succeeded  in  gaining  a  reprieve. 
Now  he  calls  you  to  his  rescue." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?"  inquired  Miss  Van  Arsdale  with 
lifted  brows. 

"Stay  here  for  a  few  days,  in  that  funny  little  house."  She 
indicated  the  portable  shack. 

"That  is  Mr.  Banneker's  own  place." 

"I  understand  perfectly." 

"I  don't  think  it  would  do,  Miss  Welland.  It  is  Miss  Welland, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  Why  wouldn't  it  do,  Miss  Van  Arsdale?" 

"Ask  yourself." 

"I  am  quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  myself,"  returned  the  girl 
calmly.  "As  for  Mr.  Banneker,  I  assume  that  he  is  equally 
competent.  And,"  she  added  with  a  smiling  effrontery,  "he's 
quite  as  much  compromised  already  as  he  could  possibly  be  by 
my  staying." 

Banneker  flushed  angrily.  "There's  no  question  of ^my  being 
compromised,"  he  began  shortly. 


48  Success 

"You're  wrong,  Ban ;  there  is,"  Miss  Van  Arsdale's  quiet  voice 
cut  him  short  again.  "And  still  more  of  Miss  Welland's.  What 
sort  of  escapade  this  may  be,"  she  added,  turning  to  the  girl, 
"I  have  no  idea.  But  you  cannot  stay  here  alone." 

"  Can't  I  ?  "  retorted  the  other  mutinously.  "  I  think  that  rests 
with  Mr.  Banneker  to  say.  Will  you  turn  me  out,  Mr.  Banneker? 
After  our  agreement?" 

"No,"  said  Banneker. 

"You  can  hardly  kidnap  me,  even  with  all  the  conventionali 
ties  on  your  side,"  Miss  Welland  pointed  out  to  Miss  Van 
Arsdale. 

That  lady  made  no  answer  to  the  taunt.  She  was  looking  at 
the  station-agent  with  a  humorously  expectant  regard.  He  did 
not  disappoint  her. 

"If  I  get  an  extra  cot  for  the  shack,  Miss  Van  Arsdale,"  he 
asked,  "could  you  get  your  things  and  come  over  here  to  stay?" 

"Certainly." 

"I  won't  be  treated  like  a  child !"  cried  the  derelict  in  exactly 
the  tone  of  one,  and  a  very  naughty  one.  "I  won't!  I  won't!" 
She  stamped. 

Banneker  laughed. 

"You're  a  coward,"  said  lo 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  laughed. 

"I'll  go  to  the  hotel  in  the  town  and  stay  there." 

"  Think  twice  before  you  do  that,"  advised  the  woman. 

"Why ?  "  asked  lo,  struck  by  the  tone. 

"Crawly  things,"  replied  Miss  Van  Arsdale  sententiously. 

"Big,  hungry  ones,"  added  Banneker. 

He  could  almost  feel  the  little  rippling  shudders  passing  across 
the  girl's  delicate  skin.  "Oh,  I  think  you're  loathly! "  she  cried. 
"Both  of  you." 

Tears  of  vexation  made  lucent  the  shadowed  depths  of  her 
eyes.  "  I've  never  been  treated  so  in  my  life ! "  she  declared,  over 
come  by  the  self-pity  of  a  struggling  soul  trammeled  by  the 
world's  injustice. 

"Why  not  be  sensible  and  stay  w^h  me  to-night  while  you 
think  it  all  over  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Van  Arsdale. 


Enchantment  49 

"Thank  you,"  returned  the  other  with  an  unexpected  and 
baffling  change  to  the  amenable  and  formal  "You  are  very 
kind.  I'd  be  delighted  to." 

"Pack  up  your  things,  then,  and  I'll  bring  an  extra  horse  from 
the  town.  I'll  be  back  in  an  hour." 

The  girl  went  up  to  Banneker's  room,  and  got  her  few  belong 
ings  together.  Descending  she  found  the  agent  busy  among  his 
papers.  He  put  them  aside  and  came  out  to  her. 

"Your  telegram  ought  to  get  off  from  Williams  sometime 
to-morrow,"  he  said. 

"That  will  be  time  enough,"  she  answered. 

"Will  there  be  any  answer  ?  " 

"How  can  there  be ?  I  haven't  given  any  address." 

"I  could  wire  Williams  later." 

"No.  I  don't  want  to  be  bothered.  I  want  to  be  let  alone. 
I'm  tired." 

He  cast  a  glance  about  the  lowering  horizon.  "More  rain 
coming,"  he  said.  "I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  desert  in  the 
sunshine." 

"I'll  wait." 

"  Will  you  ?  "  he  cried  eagerly.  "  It  may  be  quite  a  while." 

"Perhaps  Miss  Van  Arsdale  will  keep  me,  as  you  wouldn't." 

He  shook  his  head.  "You  know  that  it  isn't  because  I  don't 
want  you  to  stay.  But  she  is  right.  It  just  wouldn't  do.  ...  Here 
she  comes  now." 

lo  took  a  step  nearer  to  him.  "I've  been  looking  at  your 
books." 

He  returned  her  gaze  unembarrassed.  "Odds  and  ends,"  he 
said.  "You  wouldn't  find  much  to  interest  you." 

"On  the  contrary.  Everything  interested  me.  You're  a  mys 
tery  —  and  I  hate  mysteries." 

"That's  rather  hard." 

"Until  they're  solved.  Perhaps  I  shall  stay  until  I  solve  you." 
'Stay  longer.  It  wouldn't  take  any  time  at  all.  There's  no 
mystery  to  solve."  He  spoke  with  an  air  of  such  perfect  candor 
as  compelled  her  belief  in  his  sincerity. 

"Perhaps  you'll  solve  it  for  me.  Here's  Miss  Van  Arsdale. 


50  Success 

Good-bye,  and  thank  you.  You'll  come  and  see  me?  Or  shall  I 
come  and  see  you?" 

"Both,"  smiled  Banneker.  "That's  fairest." 

The  pair  rode  away  leaving  the  station  feeling  empty  and 
unsustained.  At  least  Banneker  credited  it  with  that  feeling. 
He  tried  to  get  back  to  work,  but  found  his  routine  dispiriting. 
He  walked  out  into  the  desert,  musing  and  aimless. 

Silence  fell  between  the  two  women  as  they  rode.  Once  Miss 
Welland  stopped  to  adjust  her  traveling-bag  which  had  shifted 
a  little  in  the  straps. 

"Is  riding  cross-saddle  uncomfortable  for  you?"  asked  Miss 
Van  Arsdale. 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  often  do  it  at  home." 

Suddenly  her  mount,  a  thick-set,  soft-going  pony  shied,  almost 
unseating  her.  A  gun  had  banged  close  by.  Immediately  there 
was  a  second  report.  Miss  Van  Arsdale  dismounted,  replacing 
a  short-barreled  shot-gun  in  its  saddle-holster,  stepped  from  the 
trail,  and  presently  returned  carrying  a  brace  of  plump,  slate- 
gray  birds. 

"Wild  dove,"  she  said,  stroking  them.  "You'll  find  them  a 
welcome  addition  to  a  meager  bill  of  fare." 

"I  should  be  quite  content  with  whatever  you  usually  have." 

"Doubted,"  replied  the  other.  "I  live  rather  a  frugal  life.  It 
saves  trouble." 

"And  I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  make  you  trouble.  But  you 
brought  it  upon  yourself." 

"  By  interfering.  Exactly.  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"Twenty." 

"  Good  Heavens !  You  have  the  aplomb  of  fifty." 

"Experience,"  smiled  the  girl,  flattered. 

"And  the  recklessness  of  fifteen." 

"I  abide  by  the  rules  of  the  game.  And  when  I  find  myself  — r 
well,  out  of  bounds,  I  make  my  own  rules." 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  shook  her  firmly  poised  head.  "  It  won't  do. 
The  rules  are  the  same  everywhere,  for  honorable  people." 

"Honorable !"  There  was  a  flash  of  resentful  pride  as  the  girl 
turned  in  the  saddle  to  face  her  companion. 


Enchantment  51 

"I  have  no  intention  of  preaching  at  you  or  of  questioning 
you,"  continued  the  calm,  assured  voice.  "If  you  are  looking  for 
sanctuary" — the  fine  lips  smiled  slightly — "though  I'm  sure 
I  can't  see  why  you  should  need  it,  this  is  the  place.  But  there 
are  rules  of  sanctuary,  also." 

"I  suppose,"  surmised  the  girl,  "you  want  to  know  why  I 
don't  go  back  into  the  world  at  once." 
1     "No." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you." 

"As  you  wish." 

"I  came  West  to  be  married." 

"ToDelavanEyre?" 

Again  the  dun  pony  jumped,  this  time  because  a  sudden  invol 
untary  contraction  of  his  rider's  muscles  had  startled  him.  "What 
do  you  know  of  Delavan  Eyre,  Miss  Van  Arsdale?" 

"I  occasionally  see  a  New  York  newspaper." 

"Then  you  know  who  I  am,  too?" 

"Yes.  You  are  the  pet  of  the  society  column  paragraphers ; 
the  famous  'Io'  Welland."  She  spoke  with  a  curious  intonation. 

"  Ah,  you  read  the  society  news  ?  " 

"  With  a  qualmish  stomach.  I  see  the  names  of  those  whom  I 
used  to  know  advertising  themselves  in  the  papers  as  if  they  had 
a  shaving-soap  or  a  chewing-gum  to  sell." 

"Part  of  the  game,"  returned  the  girl  airily.  "The  new 
comers,  the  climbers,  would  give  their  souls  to  get  the  place  in 
print  that  we  get  without  an  effort." 

"Doesn't  it  seem  to  you  a  bit  vulgar?"  asked  the  other. 

"Perhaps.  But  it's  the  way  the  game  is  played  nowadays." 

"With  counters  which  you  have  let  the  parvenues  establish  for 
;  you.  In  my  day  we  tried  to  keep  out  of  the  papers." 

"Clever  of  you,"  approved  the  girl.  "The  more  you  try  to 
keep  out,  the  more  eager  the  papers  are  to  print  your  picture. 
They're  crazy  over  exclusiveness,"  she  laughed. 

"  Speculation,  pro  and  con,  as  to  who  is  going  to  marry  whom, 
and  who  is  about  to  divorce  whom,  and  whether  Miss  Welland's 
engagement  to  Mr.  Eyre  is  authentic,  '  as  announced  exclusively 
in  this  column ' —  more  exclusiveness  — ;  or  whether  — " 


52  Success 

"It  wasn't  Del  Eyre  that  I  came  out  here  to  marry." 

"No?" 

"  No.  It's  Carter  Holmesley .  Of  course  you  know  about  him. ' 

"By  advertisement,  also;  the  society-column  kind." 

"Really,  you  know,  he  couldn't  keep  out  of  the  papers.  lie 
hates  it  with  all  his  British  soul.  But  being  what  he  is,  a  pro 
spective  duke,  an  international  poloist,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
the  reporters  naturally  swarm  to  him.  Columns  and  columns; 
more  pictures  than  a  popular  danseuse.  And  all  without  his  lift 
ing  his  hand." 

"  Un  manage  de  reclame"  observed  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  "Is 
it  that  that  constitutes  his  charm  for  you?" 

Miss  Van  Arsdale's  smile  was  still  instinct  with  mockery,  but 
there  had  crept  into  it  a  quality  of  indulgence. 

"No,"  answered  the  girl.  Her  face  became  thoughtful  and 
serious.  "It's  something  else.  He  —  he  carried  me  off  my  feel 
from  the  moment  I  met  him.  He  was  drunk,  too,  that  first  time. 
I  don't  believe  I've  ever  seen  him  cold  sober.  But  it's  a  joyous 
kind  of  intoxication ;  vine-leaves  and  Bacchus  and  that  sort  of 
thing '  weave  a  circle  'round  him  thrice ' —  you  know.  It  is  honey- 
dew  and  the  milk  of  Paradise  to  him."  She  laughed  nervously. 
"And  charm !  It's  in  the  very  air  about  him.  He  can  make  me 
follow  his  lead  like  a  little  curly  poodle  when  I'm  with 
him." 

"Were  you  engaged  to  Delavan  Eyre  when  you  met  him?" 

"Oh,  engaged ! "  returned  the  girl  fretfully.  " There  was  never 
more  than  a  sort  of  understanding.  A  manage  de  convenance  on 
both  sides,  if  it  ever  came  off.  I  am  fond  of  Del,  too.  But  he  was 
South,  and  the  other  came  like  a  whirlwind,  and  I'm  —  I'm  queer 
about  some  things,"  she  went  on  half  shamefacedly.  "I  suppose 
I'm  awfully  susceptible  to  physical  impressions.  Are  all  girls  that 
way?  Or  is  that  gross  and  —  and  underbred?" 

"  It's  part  of  us,  I  expect ;  but  we're  not  all  so  honest  with  our 
selves.  So  you  decided  to  throw  over  Mr.  Eyre  and  marry  your 
Briton." 

"  Well  —  yes.  The  new  British  Ambassador,  who  arrives  from 
Japan  next  week,  is  Carty's  uncle,  and  we  were  going  to  make 


Enchantment  53 

him  stage-manage  the  wedding,  you  see.  A  sort  of  officially  cer 
tified  elopement." 

"More  advertisement!"  said  Miss  Van  Arsdale  coldly. 
"Really,  Miss  Welland,  if  marriage  seems  to  you  nothing  more 
than  an  opportunity  to  create  a  newspaper  sensation  I  cannot 
congratulate  you  on  your  prospects." 

This  time  her  tone  stung.  lo  Welland's  eyes  became  sullen. 
But  her  voice  was  almost  caressingly  amiable  as  she  said : 

"  Tastes  differ.  It  is,  I  believe,  possible  to  create  a  sensation  in 
New  York  society  without  any  newspaper  publicity,  and  with 
out  at  all  meaning  or  wishing  to.  At  least,  it  was,  fifteen  years 
ago;  so  I'm  told." 

Camilla  Van  Arsdale's  face  was  white  and  lifeless  and  still,  as 
she  turned  it  toward  the  girl. 

"You  must  have  been  a  very  precocious  five-year-old,"  she 
saM  steadily. 

"  Ml  the  Olneys  are  precocious.  My  mother  was  an  Olney,  a 
first  cousin  of  Mrs.  Willis  Enderby,  you  know." 

"  ^es  ;  I  remember  now." 

The  malicious  smile  on  the  girl's  delicate  lips  faded.  "I  wish  1 
hadn't  said  that,"  she  cried  impulsively.  "I  hate  Cousin  Mabel 
I  always  have  hated  her.  She's  a  cat.  And  I  think  the  way  she 
acted  in  —  in  the  —  the  —  well,  about  Judge  Enderby  and  — '' 

"Please!"  Miss  Van  Arsdale's  tone  was  peremptory.  "Here 
is  my  place."  She  indicated  a  clearing  with  a  little  nest  of  a 
camp  in  it. 

"  Shall  I  go  back?"  asked  lo  remorsefully. 

"No." 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  dismounted  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitancy, 
the  other  followed  her  example.  The  hostess  threw  open  the  door 
and  a  beautiful,  white-ruffed  collie  rushed  to  her  with  barks  of 
joy.  She  held  out  a  hand  to  her  new  guest. 

"Be  welcome,"  she  said  with  a  certain  stately  gravity,  "for  as 
long  as  you  will  stay." 

"It  might  be  some  time,"  answered  lo  shyly.  "You're  tempt 
ing  me." 

"When  is  your  wedding?" 


54  Success 


"Wedding!  Oh,  didn't  I  tell  you?  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
Carter  Holmesley  either." 

"You  are  not  going  — " 

"No.  The  bump  on  my  head  must  have  settled  my  brain. 
As  soon  as  I  came  to  I  saw  how  crazy  it  would  be.  That  is  why 
I  don't  want  to  go  on  West." 

"I  see.  For  fear  of  his  overbearing  you." 

"  Yes.  Though  I  don't  think  he  could  now.  I  think  I'm  over  it. 
Poor  old  Del !  He's  had  a  narrow  escape  from  losing  me.  I  hope 
he  never  hears  of  it.  Placid  though  he  is,  that  might  stir  him  up." 

"Then  you'll  go  back  to  him?" 

The  girl  sighed.  "I  suppose  so.  How  can  I  tell?  I'm  only 
twenty,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  somebody  has  been  trying  to 
marry  me  ever  since  I  stopped  petting  my  dolls.  I'm  tired  of 
men,  men,  men !  That's  why  I  want  to  live  alone  and  quiet  for  a 
while  in  the  station-agent's  shack." 

"Then  you  don't  consider  Mr.  Banneker  as  belonging  to  the 
tribe  of  men?" 

"  He's  an  official.  I  could  always  see  his  uniform,  at  need." 
She  fell  into  thought.  "It's  a  curious  thing,"  she  mused. 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  said  nothing. 

"This  queer  young  cub  of  c,  station-agent  of  yours  is  strangely 
like  Carter  Holmesley,  not  as  much  in  looks  as  in  —  well  — 
atmosphere.  Only,  he's  ever  so  much  better-looking." 

"Won't  you  have  some  tea?  You  must  be  tired,"  said  Miss 
Van  Arsdale  politely. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SOMEWHERE  within  the  soul  of  civilized  woman  burns  a  craving 
for  that  higher  power  of  sensation  which  we  dub  sensationalism. 
Girls  of  lo  Welland's  upbringing  live  in  an  atmosphere  which 
fosters  it.  To  outshine  their  rivals  in  the  startling  things  which 
they  do,  always  within  accepted  limits,  is  an  important  and 
exciting  phase  of  existence.  lo  had  run  away  to  marry  the  future 
Duke  of  Carfax,  par  ly  through  the  charm  which  a  reckless,  head 
long,  and  romantic  pe  sonality  imposed  upon  her,  but  largely  for 
the  excitement  of  a  reckless,  headlong,  and  romantic  escapade. 
The  tragic  interposition  of  the  wreck  seemed  to  her  present  con 
sciousness,  cooled  and  sobered  by  the  spacious  peace  of  the  desert, 
to  have  been  providential. 

Despite  her  disclaimer  made  to  Banneker  she  felt,  deep  within 
the  placid  acceptances  of  subconsciousness,  that  the  destruction 
of  a  train  was  not  too  much  for  a  considerate  Providence  to  un 
dertake  on  behalf  of  her  petted  and  important  self.  She  clearly 
realized  that  she  had  had  a  narrow  escape  from  Holmesley ;  that 
hi  attraction  for  her  was  transient  and  unsubstantial,  a  surface 
magnetism  without  real  value  or  promise. 

In  her  revulsion  of  feeling  she  thought  affectionately  of  Dela- 
van  Eyre.  There  lay  the  safe  basis  of  habitude,  common  interests, 
settled  liking.  True,  he  bored  her  at  times  with  his  unimpeach 
able  good-nature,  his  easy  self-assurance  that  everything  was  and 
alwayswould  be"  all  light,"  andnothing  "  worth  bothering  over." 

If  he  knew  of  her  escapade,  that  would  at  least  shake  him  out  of 
his  soft  and  well-lined  rut.  Indeed,  lo  was  frank  enough  with 
herself  to  admit  that  a  perverse  desire  to  explode  a  bomb  under 
her  imperturbable  and  too-assured  suitor  had  been  an  element  in 
her  projected  elopement.  Never  would  that  bomb  explode.  It 
would  not  even  fizzle  enough  to  alarm  Eyre  or  her  family.  For 
not  a  soul  knew  of  the  frustrated  scheme,  except  Holmesley  and 
the  reliable  friend  in  Paradiso  whom  she  was  to  visit ;  not  her 
father,  Sims  Welland,  traveling  in  Europe  on  business,  nor  her 


56  Success 

aunt,  Mrs.  Thatcher  Forbes,  in  whose  charge  she  had  been  left. 
Ostensibly  she  had  been  going  to  visit  the  Westerleys,  that  was 
all :  Mrs.  Forbes's  misgivings  as  to  a  twenty-year-old  girl  crossing 
the  continent  alone  had  been  unavailing  against  lo's  calm  willful 
ness. 

Well,  she  would  go  back  and  marry  Del  Eyre,  and  be  com 
fortable  ever  after.  After  all,  liking  and  comprehension  were  a 
sounder  foundation  for  matrimony  than  the  perishable  glamour 
of  an  attraction  like  Holmesley's.  Any  sensible  person  would 
know  that.  She  wished  that  she  had  some  older  and  more  ex 
perienced  woman  to  talk  it  out  with.  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  if  only 
she  knew  her  a  little  better  .  .  . 

Camilla  Van  Arsdale,  even  on  so  casual  an  acquaintance, 
would  have  told  lo,  reckoning  with  the  slumbering  fire  in  her 
eyes,  and  the  sensitive  and  passionate  turn  of  the  lips,  but  still 
more  with  the  subtle  and  significant  emanation  of  a  femininity  as 
yet  unawakened  to  itself,  that  for  her  to  marry  on  the  pallid 
expectancies  of  mere  liking  would  be  to  invite  disaster  and  chal 
lenge  ruin. 

Meantime  lo  wanted  to  rest  and  think. 

Time  enough  for  that  was  to  be  hers,  it  appeared.  Her  first 
night  as  a  guest  had  been  spent  in  a  sfemi-enclosed  porch,  to 
which  every  breeze  wafted  the  spicy  and  restful  balm  of  the  wet 
pines.  lo's  hot  brain  cooled  itself  in  that  peace.  Quite  with  a 
feeling  of  welcome  she  accepted  the  windy  downpour  which 
came  with  the  morning  to  keep  her  indoors,  as  if  it  were  a  friendly 
and  opportune  jailer.  Reaction  from  the  mental  strain  and  the 
physical  shock  had  set  in.  She  wanted  only,  as  she  expressed  it 
to  her  hostess,  to  "laze"  for  a  while. 

"Then  this  is  the  ideal  spot  for  you,"  Miss  Van  Arsdale  an 
swered  her.  "I'm  going  to  ride  over  to  town." 

"In  this  gale?"  asked  the  surprised  girl. 

"Oh,  I'm  weather-proof.  Tell  Pedro  not  to  wait  luncheon  for 
me.  And  keep  an  eye  on  him  if  you  want  anything  fit  to  eat. 
He's  the  worst  cook  west  of  the  plains.  You'll  find  books,  and  the 
piano  to  amuse  you  when  you  get  up." 

She  rode  away,  straight  and  supple  in  the  saddle,  and  lo  went 


Enchantment  57 

back  to  sleep  again.  Halfway  to  her  destination,  Miss  Van  Ars- 
dale's  woods-trained  ear  caught  the  sound  of  another  horse's 
hooves,  taking  a  short  cut  across  a  bend  in  the  trail.  To  her 
halloo,  Banneker's  clear  voice  responded.  She  waited  and  pres 
ently  he  rode  up  to  her. 

"Come  back  with  me,"  she  invited  after  acknowledging  his 
greeting.  * 

"I  was  going  over  to  see  Miss  Welland." 

"Wait  until  to-morrow.  She  is  resting." 

A  shade  of  disappointment  crossed  his  "face.  "All  right,"  he 
agreed.  "I  wanted  to  tell  her  that  her  messages  got  off  all 
right." 

"I'll  tell  her  when  I  go  back." 

"That'll  be  just  as  well,"  he  answered  reluctantly.  "How  is 
she  feeling?" 

"Exhausted.  She's  been  under  severe  strain." 

"Oughtn't  she  to  have  a  doctor?  I  could  ride  — " 

"  She  won't  listen  to  it.  And  I  think  her  head  is  all  right  now. 
But  she  ought  to  have  complete  rest  for  several  days." 

"Well,  I'm  likely  to  be  busy  enough,"  he  said  simply.  "The 
schedule  is  all  shot  to  pieces,  and,  unless  this  rain  lets  up,  we'll 
have  more  track  out.  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  looked  up  through  the  thrashing  pines  to  the 
rush  of  the  gray-black  clouds.  "  I  think  we're  in  for  a  siege  of  it," 
was  her  pronouncement. 

They  rode  along  single  file  in  the  narrow  trail  until  they 
emerged  into  the  open.  Then  Banneker's  horse  moved  forward, 
neck  and  neck  with  the  other.  Miss  Van  Arsdale  reined  down  her 
uneasy  roan. 

"Ban." 

"Yes?" 

"Have  you  ever  seen  anything  like  her  before?" 

"Only  on  the  stage." 

She  smiled.  "What  do  you  think  of  her?" 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  express  it,"  he  answered  frankly, 
though  hesitantly.  "She  makes  me  think  of  all  the  poetry  I've 
ever  read." 


58  Success 

"That's  dangerous.  Ban,  have  you  any  idea  what  kind  of  a 
girl  she  is?" 

"What  kind?"  he  repeated.  He  looked  startled. 

"Of  course  you  haven't.  How  should  you?  I'm  going  to  tell 
you." 

"Do  you  know  her,  Miss  Camilla?" 

"As  well  as  if  she  were  my  own  sister.  That  is,  I  know  her 
type.  It's  common  enough." 

''It  can't  be,"  he  protested  eagerly. 

"Oh,  yes!  The  type  is.  She  is  an  exquisite  specimen  of  it; 
that's  all.  Listen,  Ban.  lo  Welland  is  the  petted  and  clever  and 
willful  daughter  of  a  rich  man;  a  very  rich  man  he  would  be 
reckoned  out  here.  She  lives  in  a  world  as  remote  from  this  as  the 
moon." 

"Of  course.  I  realize  that." 

"  It's  well  that  you  do.  And  she's  as  casual  a  visitant  here  as  if 
she  had  floated  down  on  one  moonbeam  and  would  float  back  on 
the  next." 

"She'll  have  to,  to  get  out  of  here  if  this  rain  keeps  up,"  ob 
served  the  station-agent  grimly. 

"I  wish  she  would,"  returned  Miss  Van  Arsdale. 

"Is  she  in  your  way?" 

"I  shouldn't  mind  that  if  I  could  keep  her  out  of  yours,"  she 
answered  bluntly. 

Banneker  turned  a  placid  and  smiling  face  to  her.  "You  think 
I'm  a  fool,  don't  you,  Miss  Camilla  ?  " 

"I  think  that  lo  Welland,  without  ill-intent  at  all,  but  with  a 
period  of  idleness  on  her  hands,  is  a  dangerous  creature  to  have 
around.  She's  too  lovely  and,  I  think,  too  restless  a  spirit." 

"She's  lovely,  all  right,"  assented  Banneker. 

"Well;  I've  warned  you,  Ban,"  returned  his  friend  in  slightly 
dispirited  tones. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  Keep  away  from  your  place? 
I'll  do  whatever  you  say.  But  it's  all  nonsense." 

"I  dare  say  it  is,"  sighed  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  " Forget  that  I've 
said  it,  Ban.  Meddling  is  a  thankless  business." 

"You  could  never  meddle  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  said 


Enchantment  59 

Banneker  warmly.  "I'm  a  little  worried,"  he  added  thought 
fully,  "about  not  reporting  her  as  found  to  the  company.  What 
do  you  think?" 

"Too  official  a  question  for  me.  You'll  have  to  settle  that  for 
yourself." 

"How  long  does  she  intend  to  stay?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  a  girl  of  her  breeding  and  habits  would 
hardly  settle  herself  on  a  stranger  for  very  long  unless  a  point 
were  made  of  urging  her." 

"And  you  won't  do  that?" 

"I  certainly  shall  not!" 

"  No ;  I  suppose  not.  You've  been  awfully  good  to  her." 

"Hospitality  to  the  shipwrecked,"  smiled  Miss  Van  Arsdale 
as  she  crossed  the  track  toward  the  village. 

Late  afternoon,  darkening  into  wilder  winds  and  harsher  rain, 
brought  the  hostess  back  to  her  lodge  dripping  and  weary.  On  a 
bearskin  before  the  smouldering  fire  lay  the  girl,  her  fingers  inter 
twined  behind  her  head,  her  eyes  half  closed  and  dreamy.  With 
out  directly  responding  to  the  other's  salutation  she  said: 

"  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  will  you  be  very  good  to  me  ?  " 

"What  is  it?" 

"I'm  tired,"  said  lo.  "So  tired !" 

"Stay,  of  course,"  responded  the  hostess,  answering  the  impli 
cation  heartily,  "as  long  as  you  will." 

"Only  two  or  three  days,  until  I  recover  the  will  to  do  some 
thing.  You're  awfully  kind."  lo  looked  very  young  and  childlike, 
with  her  languid,  mobile  face  irradiated  by  the  half-light  of  the 
fire.  "  Perhaps  you'll  play  for  me  sometime." 

"Of  course.  Now,  if  you  like.  As  soon  as  the  chill  gets  out  of 
my  hands." 

"Thank  you.  And  sing?"  suggested  the  girl  diffidently. 

A  fierce  contraction  of  pain  marred  the  serenity  of  the  older 
woman's  face.  "No,"  she  said  harshly.  "I  sing  for  no  one." 

"I'm  sorry,"  murmured  the  girl. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  all  day?"  asked  Miss  Van 
Arsdale,  holding  out  her  hands  toward  the  fire. 

"Resting.  Thinking.  Scaring  myself  with  bogy-thoughts  of 


60  Success 

what  I've  escaped."  lo  smiled  and  sighed.  " I  hadn't  known  how 
worn  out  I  was  until  I  woke  up  this  morning.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
before  realized  the  meaning  of  refuge." 

"You'll  recover  from  the  need  of  it  soon  enough,"  promised  the 
other.  She  crossed  to  the  piano.  "What  kind  of  music  do  you 
want?  No;  don't  tell  me.  I  should  be  able  to  guess."  Half 
turning  on  the  bench  she  gazed  speculatively  at  the  lax  figure  on 
the  rug.  "Chopin,  I  think.  I've  guessed  right?  Well,  I  don't 
think  I  shall  play  you  Chopin  to-day.  You  don't  need  that  kind 
of  — of  —  well,  excitation." 

Musing  for  a  moment  over  a  soft  mingling  of  chords  she  began 
with  a  little  ripple  of  melody,  MacDowell's  lovely,  hurrying, 
buoyant  "Improvisation,"  with  its  aeolian  vibrancies,  its  light, 
bright  surges  of  sound,  sinking  at  the  last  into  cradled  restfulness. 
Without  pause  or  transition  she  passed  on  to  Grieg ;  the  wistful, 
remote  appeal  of  the  strangely  misnamed  "Erotique,"  plaintive, 
solemn,  and  in  the  fulfillment  almost  hymnal :  the  brusque  pur 
suing  minors  of  the  wedding  music,  and  the  diamond-shower  of 
notes  of  the  sun-path  song,  bleak,  piercing,  Northern  sunlight 
imprisoned  in  melody.  Then,  the  majestic  swing  of  Ase's  death- 
chant,  glorious  and  mystical. 

"Are  you  asleep?"  asked  the  player,  speaking  through  the 
chords. 

"No,"  answered  lo's  tremulous  voice.  "I'm  being  very  un 
happy.  I  love  it!" 

Bang !  It  was  a  musical  detonation,  followed  by  a  volley  of 
chords  and  then  a  wild,  swirling  waltz ;  and  Miss  Van  Arsdale 
jumped  up  and  stood  over  her  guest.  "There!"  she  said. 
"That's  better  than  letting  you  pamper  yourself  with  the  indul 
gence  of  unhappiness." 

"But  I  want  to  be  unhappy,"  pouted  lo.  "I  want  to  be 
pampered." 

"Naturally.  You  always  will  be,  I  expect,  as  long  as  there  are 
men  in  the  world  to  do  your  bidding.  However,  I  must  see  to 
supper." 

So  for  two  days  lo  Welland  lolled  and  lazed  and  listened  to 
Miss  Van  Arsdale's  music,  or  read,  or  took  little  walks  between 


Enchantment  61 

showers.  No  further  mention  was  made  by  her  hostess  of  the 
circumstances  of  the  visit.  She  was  a  reticent  woman;  almost 
saturnine,  lo  decided,  though  her  perfect  and  effortless  courtesy 
preserved  her  from  being  antipathetic  to  any  one  beneath  her 
own  roof.  How  much  her  silence  as  to  the  unusual  situation  was 
inspired  by  consideration  for  her  guest ,  how  much  due  to  natural 
reserve,  lo  could  not  estimate. 

A  little  less  reticence  would  have  been  grateful  to  her  as  the 
hours  spun  out  and  she  felt  her  own  spirit  expand  slowly  in  the 
calm.  It  was  she  who  introduced  the  subject  of  Banneker. 

"Our  quaint  young  station-agent  seems  to  have  abandoned  his 
responsibilities  so  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  she  observed. 

"  Because  he  hasn't  come  to  see  you  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  said  he  would." 

"I  told  him  not  to." 

"I  see,"  said  lo,  after  thinking  it  over.  "Is^he  a  little  —  just  a 
wee,  little  bit  queer  in  his  head  ?  " 

"He's  one  of  the  sanest  persons  I've  ever  known.  And  I  want 
him  to  stay  so." 

"I  see  again,"  stated  the  girl. 

"So  you  thought  him  a  bit  unbalanced?  That  is  amusing." 
That  the  hostess  meant  the  adjective  in  good  faith  was  proved 
by  her  quiet  laughter. 

lo  regarded  her  speculatively  and  with  suspicion.  "He  asked 
the  same  about  me,  I  suppose."  Such  was  her  interpretation  of 
the  laugh. 

"But  he  gave  you  credit  for  being  only  temporarily  de 
ranged." 

"Either  he  or  I  ought  to  be  up  for  examination  by  a  medical 
board,"  stated  the  girl  poutingly.  "One  of  us  must  be  crazy. 
The  night  that  I  stole  his  molasses  pie  —  it  was  pretty  awful  pie, 
but  I  was  starved  —  I  stumbled  over  something  in  the  darkness 
and  fell  into  it  with  an  awful  clatter.  What  do  you  suppose  it 
was?" 

"I  think  I  could  guess,"  smiled  the  other. 

"Not  unless  you  knew.  Personally  I  couldn't  believe  it.  It 
felt  like  a  boat,  and  it  rocked  like  a  boat,  and  there  were  the  seats 


62  Success 

'  and  the  oars.  I  could  feel  them.  A  steel  boat !  Miss  Van  Ars- 
dale,  it  isn't  reasonable." 
•    "  Why  isn't  it  reasonable  ? ' 

"  I  looked  on  the  map  in  his  room  and  there  isn't  so  much  as  a 
mud-puddle  within  miles  and  miles  and  miles.  Is  there?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"Then  what  does  he  want  of  a  steel  boat?" 

"Ask  him." 

"It  might  stir  him  up.  They  get  violent  if  you  question  their 
pet  lunacies,  don't  they?" 

"It's  quite  simple.  Ban  is  just  an  incurable  romanticist.  He 
loves  the  water.  And  his  repository  of  romance  is  the  catalogue 
of  Sears,  Roebuck  &  Co.  When  the  new  issue  came,  with  an 
entrancing  illustration  of  a  fully  equipped  steel  boat,  he  simply 
couldn't  stand  it.  He  had  to  have  one,  to  remind  him  that  some 
day  he  would  be  going  back  to  the  coast  lagoons. . . .  Does  that 
sound  to  you  like  a  fool?" 

"No;  it  sounds  delicious,"  declared  the  girl  with  a  ripple  of 
mirth.  "What  a  wonderful  person!  I'm  going  over  to  see  him 
to-morrow.  May  I?" 

"My  dear;  I  have  no  control  over  your  actions." 

"Have  you  made  any  other  plans  for  me  to-morrow  morning ?  " 
inquired  Miss  Welland  in  a  prim  and  social  tone,  belied  by  the 
dancing  light  in  her  eyes. 

"I've  told  you  that  he  was  romantic,"  warned  the  other. 

"What  higher  recommendation  could  there  be?  I  shall  sit  in 
the  boat  with  him  and  talk  nautical  language.  Has  he  a  yacht 
ing  cap?  Oh,  do  tell  me  that  he  has  a  yachting  cap !" 

Miss  Van  Arsdale,  smiling,  shook  her  head,  but  her  eyes  were 
troubled.  There  was  compunction  in  lo's  next  remark. 

"I'm  really  going  over  to  see  about  accommodations.  Sooner 
or  later  I  must  face  the  music  —  meaning  Carty.  I'm  fit  enough 
now,  thanks  to  you." 

"Wouldn't  an  Eastern  trip  be  safer?"  suggested  her  hos 
tess. 

"An  Eastern  trip  would  be  easier.  But  I've  made  my  break, 
,and  it's  in  the  rules,  as  I  understand  them,  that  I've  got  to  see  it 


Enchantment  63 

through.  If  he  can  get  me  now" — she  gave  a  little  shrug  — 
"but  he  can't.  I've  come  to  my  senses." 

Sunlight  pale,  dubious,  filtering  through  the  shaken  cloud  veils, 
ushered  in  the  morning.  Meager  of  promise  though  it  was,  lo's 
spirits  brightened.  Declining  the  offer  of  a  horse  in  favor  of  a 
pocket  compass,  she  set  out  afoot,  not  taking  the  trail,  but  forg 
ing  straight  through  the  heavy  forest  for  the  line  of  desert. 
Around  her,  brisk  and  busy  flocks  of  pinon  jays  darted  and 
twittered  confidentially.  The  warm  spice  of  the  pines  was  sweet 
in  her  nostrils.  Little  stirrings  and  rustlings  just  beyond  the  reach 
of  vision  delightfully  and  provocatively  suggested  the  interest 
which  she  was  inspiring  by  her  invasion  among  the  lesser  denizens 
of  the  place.  The  sweetness  and  intimacy  of  an  unknown  life 
surrounded  her.  She  sang  happily  as  she  strode,  lithe  and  strong 
and  throbbing  with  unfulfilled  energies  and  potencies,  through 
the  springtide  of  the  woods. 

But  when  she  emerged  upon  the  desert,  she  fell  silent.  A  spa 
ciousness  as  of  endless  vistas  enthralled  and,  a  little,  awed  her. 
On  all  sides  were  ranged  the  disordered  ranks  of  the  cacti, 
stricken  into  immobility  in  the  very  act  of  reconstituting  their 
columns,  so  that  they  gave  the  effect  of  a  discord  checked  on  the 
verge  of  its  resolution  into  form  and  harmony,  yet  with  a  weird 
and  distorted  beauty  of  its  own.  From  a  little  distance,  there 
came  a  murmur  of  love-words.  lo  moved  softly  forward,  peering 
curiously,  and  from  the  arc  of  a  wide  curving  ocatilla  two  wild 
doves  sprang,  leaving  the  branch  all  aquiver.  Bolder  than  his 
companions  of  the  air,  a  cactus  owl,  perched  upon  the  highest 
column  of  a  great  green  candelabrum,  viewed  her  with  a  steady 
detachment,  "  sleepless,  with  cold,  commemorative  eyes."  The 
girl  gave  back  look  for  look,  into  the  big,  hard, unwavering  circles. 

"You're  a  funny  little  bird,"  said  she.  "Say  something!" 

Like  his  congener  of  the  hortatory  poem,  the  owl  held  his 
peace. 

"Perhaps  you're  a  stuffed  little  bird,"  said  lo,  "and  this  not  a 
real  desert  at  all,  but  a  National  Park  or  something,  full  of  edu 
cational  specimens." 

She  walked  past  the  occupant  of  the  cactus,  and  his  head, 


64  Success 

turning,  followed  her  with  the  slow,  methodical  movement  of  a 
toy  mechanism. 

"You  give  me  a  crick  in  my  neck,"  protested  the  intruder 
plaintively.  "Now,  I'll  step  over  behind  you  and  you'll  have  to 
move  or  stop  watching  me." 

She  walked  behind  the  watcher.  The  eyes  continued  to  hold 
her  in  direct  range. 

"Now,"  said  lo,  "I  know  where  the  idea  for  that  horrid  ad 
vertisement  that  always  follows  you  with  its  finger  came  from. 
However,  I'll  fix  you." 

She  fetched  a  deliberate  circle.  The  bird's  eyes  followed  her 
without  cessation.  Yet  his  feet  and  body  remained  motionless. 
Only  the  head  had  turned.  That  had  made  a  complete  revolu 
tion. 

"This  is  a  very  queer  desert,"  gasped  lo.  "It's  bewitched.  Or 
am  I  ?  Now,  I'm  going  to  walk  once  more  around  you,  little  owl, 
or  mighty  magician,  whichever  you  are.  And  after  I've  com 
pletely  turned  your  head,  you'll  fall  at  my  feet.  Or  else  ..." 

Again  she  walked  around  the  feathered  center  of  the  circle. 
The  head  followed  her,  turning  with  a  steady  and  uninterrupted 
motion,  on  its  pivot.  lo  took  a  silver  dime  from  her  purse. 

"Heaven  save  us  from  the  powers  of  evil  1"  she  said  appreci 
atively.  "Aroint  thee,  witch!" 

She  threw  the  coin  at  the  cactus. 

"  Chrr-rr-rrum !"  burbled  the  owl,  and  flew  away. 

"I'm  dizzy,"  said  lo.  "I  wonder  if  the  owl  is  an  omen  and 
whether  the  other  inhabitants  of  this  desert  are  like  him ;  how 
ever  much  you  turn  their  heads,  they  won't  fall  for  you.  Charms 
and  counter-charms!. .  .Be  a  good  child,  lo,"  she  admonished 
herself.  "Haven't  you  got  yourself  into  enough  trouble  with 
your  deviltries?  I  can't  help  it,"  she  defended  herself.  "When  I 
see  a  new  and  interesting  specimen,  I've  just  got  to  investigate  its 
nature  and  habits.  It's  an  inherited  scientific  spirit,  I  suppose. 
And  he  is  new,  and  awfully  interesting  —  even  if  he  is  only  a 
station-agent."  Wherefrom  it  will  be  perceived  that  her  thoughts 
had  veered  from  the  cactus  owl,  to  another  perplexing  local 
phenomenon. 


Enchantment  65 

The  glaring  line  of  the  railroad  right-of-way  rose  before  her 
feet,  a  discordant  note  of  rigidity  and  order  in  the  confused 
prodigality  of  desert  growth.  lo  turned  away  from  it,  but  fol 
lowed  its  line  until  she  reached  the  station.  No  sign  of  life 
greeted  her.  The  door  was  locked,  and  the  portable  house  unre 
sponsive  to  her  knocking.  Presently,  however,  she  heard  the 
steady  click  of  the  telegraph  instrument  and,  looking  through 
the  half-open  office  window,  saw  Banneker  absorbed  in  his  work. 

"Good-morning,"  she  called. 

Without  looking  up  he  gave  back  her  greeting  in  an  absent 
echo. 

"  As  you  didn't  come  to  see  me,  I've  come  to  see  you,"  was  her 
next  attempt. 

Did  he  nod  ?  Or  had  he  made  no  motion  at  all  ? 

"I've  come  to  ask  important  questions  about  trains,"  she 
pursued,  a  little  aggrieved  by  his  indifference  to  her  presence. 

No  reply  from  the  intent  worker. 

"And  'tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings,'"  she  quoted  with 
a  fairy  chuckle.  She  thought  that  she  saw  a  small  contortion 
pass  over  his  features,  only  to  be  banished  at  once.  He  had 
retired  within  the  walls  of  that  impassive  and  inscrutable  reserve 
which  minor  railroad  officials  can  at  will  erect  between  them 
selves  and  the  lay  public.  Only  the  broken  rhythms  of  the  tele 
graph  ticker  relieved  the  silence  and  furnished  the  justification. 

A  little  piqued  but  more  amused,  for  she  was  far  too  confident 
of  herself  to  feel  snubbed,  the  girl  waited  smilingly.  Presently  she 
said  in  silken  tones : 

"When  you're  quite  through  and  can  devote  a  little  attention 
to  insignificant  me,  I  shall  perhaps  be  sitting  on  the  sunny  corner 
of  the  platform,  or  perhaps  I  shall  be  gone  forever." 

But  she  was  not  gone  when,  ten  minutes  later,  Banneker  came 
out.  He  looked  tired. 

"You  know,  you  weren't  very  polite  to  me,"  she  remarked, 
glancing  at  him  slantwise  as  he  stood  before  her. 

If  she  expected  apologies,  she  was  disappointed,  and  perhaps 
thought  none  the  less  of  him  for  his  dereliction. 

"There's  trouble  all  up  and  down  the  line,"  he  said.  " Nothing 


66  Success 

like  a  schedule  left  west  of  Allbright.  Two  passenger  trains  have 
come  through,  though.  Would  you  like  to  see  a  paper?  It's  in 
my  office." 

"Goodness,  no!  Why  should  I  want  a  newspaper  here?  I 
haven't  time  for  it.  I  want  to  see  the  world"  —  she  swept  a  little, 
indicating  hand  about  her ;  "all  that  I  can  take  in  in  a  day." 

"  A  day?  "he  echoed. 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to-morrow." 

"That's  as  may  be.  Ten  to  one  there's  no  space  to  be  had." 

"  Surely  you  can  get  something  for  me.  A  section  will  do  if  you 
can't  get  a  stateroom." 

He  smiled.  "  The  president  of  the  road  might  get  a  stateroom. 
I  doubt  if  anybody  else  could  even  land  an  upper.  Of  course  I'll 
do  my  best.  But  it's  a  question  when  there'll  be  another  train 
through." 

"What  ails  your  road?"  she  demanded  indignantly.  "Is  it 
just  stuck  together  with  glue?" 

"You've  never  seen  this  desert  country  when  it  springs  a  leak. 
It  can  develop  a  few  hundred  Niagaras  at  the  shortest  notice  of 
any  place  I  know." 

"  But  it  isn't  leaking  now,"  she  objected. 

He  turned  his  face  to  the  softly  diffused  sunlight.  "To  be 
continued.  The  storm  isn't  over  yet,  according  to  the  way  I  feel 
about  it.  Weather  reports  say  so,  too." 

"  Then  take  me  for  a  walk !"  she  cried.  "  I'm  tired  of  rain  and  I 
want  to  go  over  and  lean  against  that  lovely  white  mountain." 

"Well,  it's  only  sixty  miles  away,"  he  answered.  "Perhaps 
you'd  better 'take  some  grub  along  or  you  might  get  hungry." 

"Aren't  you  coming  with  me?" 

"  This  is  my  busy  morning.  If  it  were  afternoon,  now  — 3 

"Very  well.  Since  you  are  so  urgent,  I  will  stay  to  luncheon, 
I'll  even  get  it  up  myself  if  you'll  let  me  into  the  shack." 

"That's  a  go  I"  said  Banneker  heartily.  "What  about  your 
horse?" 

"I  walked  over." 

"No ;  did  you?"  He  turned  thoughtful,  and  his  next  observa 
tion  had  a  slightly  troubled  ring.  "Have  you  got  a  gun?" 


Enchantment  67 

"  A  gun?  Oh,  you  mean  a  pistol.  No ;  I  haven't.  Why  should 
I?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "  This  is  no  time  to  be  out  in  the  open  with 
out  a  gun.  They  had  a  dance  at  the  Sick  Coyote  in  Manzanita 
last  night,  and  there'll  be  some  tough  specimens  drifting  along 
homeward  all  day." 

"Do  you  carry  a  gun?" 

"I  would  if  I  were  going  about  with  you." 

"Then  you  can  loan  me  yours  to  go  home  with  this  afternoon," 
she  said  lightly. 

"Oh,  I'll  take  you  back.  Just  now  I've  got  some  odds  and  ends 
that  will  take  a  couple  of  hours  to  clear  up.  You'll  find  plenty  to 
read  in  the  shack,  such  as  it  is." 

Thus  casually  dismissed,  lo  murmured  a  "Thank  you"  which 
was  not  as  meek  as  it  sounded,  and  withdrew  to  rummage  among 
the  canned  edibles  drawn  from  the  inexhaustible  stock  of  Sears- 
Roebuck.  Having  laid  out  a  selection,  housewifely,  and  looked 
to  the  oil  stove  derived  from  the  same  source,  she  turned  with 
some  curiosity  to  the  mental  pabulum  with  which  this  strange 
young  hermit  had  provided  himself.  Would  this,  too,  bear  the 
mail-order  imprint  and  testify  to  mail-order  standards  ?  At  first 
glance  the  answer  appeared  to  be  affirmative.  The  top  shelf  of 
the  home-made  case  sagged  with  the  ineffable  slusheries  of  that 
most  popular  and  pious  of  novelists,  Harvey  Wheelwright.  Near 
by,  "How  to  Behave  on  All  Occasions"  held  forth  its  unim 
peachable  precepts,  while  a  little  beyond,  "Botany  Made  Easy" 
and  "The  Perfect  Letter  Writer"  proffered  further  aid  to  the  as 
piring  mind.  Improvement,  stark,  blatant  Improvement,  ad 
vertised  itself  from  that  culturous  and  reeking  compartment. 
But  just  below  —  lo  was  tempted  to  rub  her  eyes  —  stood  Bur 
ton's  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy";  a  Browning,  complete;  that 
inimitably  jocund  fictional  prank,  Frederic's  "March  Hares," 
together  with  the  same  author's  fine  and  profoundly  just  "Dam 
nation  of  Theron  Ware";  Taylor's  translation  of  Faust;  "The 
[broken-backed]  Egoist";  "Lavengro"  (lo  touched  its  magic 
pages  with  tender  fingers),  and  a  fat,  faded,  reddish  volume  so 
worn  and  obscured  that  she  at  once  took  it  down  and  made 


68  Success 

explorative  entry.  She  was  still  deep  in  it  when  the  owner 
arrived. 

"Have  you  found  enough  to  keep  you  amused?" 

She  looked  up  from  the  pages  and  seemed  to  take  him  all  in 
anew  before  answering.  "  Hardly  the  word.  Bewildered  would  be 
nearer  the  feeling." 

"It's  a  queerish  library,  I  suppose,"  he  said  apologetically. 

"  If  I  believed  in  dual  personality  —  -"  she  began ;  but  broke  off 
to  hold  up  the  bulky  veteran.  "Where  did  you  get  'The  Un 
dying  Voices'?" 

"Oh,  that's  a  windfall.  What  a  bully  title  for  a  collection  of 
the  great  poetries,  isn't  it ! " 

She  nodded,  one  caressing  hand  on  the  open  book,  the  other 
propping  her  chin  as  she  kept  the  clear  wonder  of  her  eyes  upon 
him. 

"It  makes  you  think  of  singers  making  harmony  together  in  a 
great  open  space.  I'd  like  to  know  the  man  who  made  the  selec 
tions,"  he  concluded. 

"What  kind  of  a  windfall?"  she  asked. 

"A  real  one.  Pullman  travelers  sometimes  prop  their  windows 
open  with  books.  You  can  see  the  window-mark  on  the  cover  of 
this  one.  I  found  it  two  miles  out,  beside  the  right-of-way.  There 
was  no  name  in  it,  so  I  kept  it.  It's  the  book  I  read  most  except 
one." 

"What's  the  one?" 

He  laughed,  holding  up  the  still  more  corpulent  Sears-Roe 
buck  catalogue. 

"Ah,"  said  she  gravely.  "That  accounts,  I  suppose,  for  the 
top  shelf." 

"Yes,  mostly." 

"Do  you  like  them?  The  Conscientious  Improvers,  I  mean?" 

"I  think  they're  bunk." 

"Then  why  did  you  get  them?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I  was  looking  for  something,"  he  returned; 
and  though  his  tone  was  careless,  she  noticed  for  the  first  time 
a  tinge  of  self-consciousness. 

" Did  you  find  it  there?" 


Enchantment  69 

"No.  It  isn't  there." 

"Here?"  She  laid  both  hands  on  the  "  windfall." 

His  face  lighted  subtly. 

"It  is  there,  isn't  it !  If  one  has  the  sense  to  get  it  out." 

"I  wonder,"  mused  the  girl.  And  again,  "I  wonder."  She 
rose,  and  taking  out  "March  Hares"  held  it  up.  "I  could  hardly 
believe  this  when  I  saw  it.  Did  it  also  drop  out  of  a  car  window  ?  " 

"No.  I  never  heard  of  that  until  I  wrote  for  it.  I  wrote  to  a 
Boston  bookstore  that  I'd  heard  about  and  told  'em  I  wanted  two 
books  to  cheer  up  a  fool  with  the  blues,  and  another  to  take  him 
into  a  strange  world  —  and  keep  the  change  out  of  five  dollars. 
They  sent  me  'The  Bab  Ballads'  and  this,  and  'Lavengro.'" 

"Oh,  how  I'd  like  to  see  that  letter!  If  the  bookstore  has  an 
ounce  of  real  bookitude  about  it,  they've  got  it  preserved  in 
lavender !  And  what  do  you  think  of  '  March  Hares '  ? " 

"Did  you  ever  read  any  of  the  works  of  Harvey  Wheel 
wright?"  he  questioned  in  turn. 

"Now,"  thought  lo,  "he  is  going  to  compare  Frederic  to 
Wheelwright,  and  I  shall  abandon  him  to  his  fate  forever.  So 
here's  his  chance  ...  I  have,"  she  replied  aloud. 

"It's  funny,"  ruminated  Banneker.  "Mr.  Wheelwright  writes 
about  the  kind  of  things  that  might  happen  any  day,  and  prob" 
ably  do  happen,  and  yet  you  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  '  March 
Hares '  —  well,  it  just  couldn't  happen ;  but  what  do  you  care 
while  you're  in  it !  It  seems  realer  than  any  of  the  dull  things 
outside  it.  That's  the  literary  part  of  it,  I  suppose,  isn't  it?" 

"That's  the  magic  of  it,"  returned  lo,  with  a  little,  half-sup 
pressed  crow  of  delight.  "Are  you  magic,  too,  Mr.  Banneker?" 

"Me?  I'm  hungry,"  said  he. 

"Forgive  the  cook!"  she  cried.  "But  just  one  thing  more. 
Will  you  lend  me  the  poetry  book?" 

"It's  all  marked  up,"  he  objected,  flushing. 

"Are  you  afraid  that  I'll  surprise  your  inmost  secrets?"  she 
taunted.  "They'd  be  safe.  I  can  be  close-mouthed,  even  though 
I've  been  chattering  like  a  sparrow." 

"Take  it,  of  course,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  I've  marked  all  the 
wrong  things." 


70  Success 


"  So  far,"  she  laughed,  "you're  batting  one  hundred  per  cent  as 
a  literary  critic."  She  poured  coffee  into  a  tin  cup  and  handed  it 
to  him.  "What  do  you  think  of  my  coffee?" 

He  tasted  it  consideringly;  then  gave  a  serious  verdict. 
"Pretty  bad." 

"Really!  I  suppose  it  isn't  according  to  the  mail-order  book 
recipe." 

"  It's  muddy  and  it's  weak." 

"Are  you  always  so  frank  in  your  expression  of  views?" 

"Well,  you  asked  me." 

"Would  you  answer  as  plainly  whatever  I  asked  you?" 

"  Certainly.  I'd  have  too  much  respect  for  you  not  to." 

She  opened  wide  eyes  at  this.  Then  provocatively :  "What  do 
you  think  of  me,  Mr.  Banneker?" 

"I  can't  answer  that." 

"Why  not?"  she  teased. 

"I  don't  know  you  well  enough  to  give  an  opinion." 

"You  know  me  as  well  as  you  ever  will." 

"Very  likely." 

"Well,  a  snap  judgment,  for  what  it's  worth. . .  .What  are  you 
doing  there?" 

"  Making  more  coffee." 

lo  stamped  her  foot.  "You're  the  most  enraging  man  I  ever 
met." 

"It's  quite  unintentional,"  he  replied  patiently,  but  with  no 
hint  of  compunction.  "You  may  drink  yours  and  I'll  drink 
mine." 

"You're  only  making  it  worse !" 

"Very  well ;  then  I'll  drink  yours  if  you  like." 

"And  say  it's  good." 

"But  what's  the  use?" 

"And  say  it's  good,"  insisted  lo. 

"It's  marvelous,"  agreed  her  unsmiling  host. 

Far  from  being  satisfied  with  words  and  tone,  which  were  cor 
rectness  itself,  lo  was  insensately  exasperated. 

"You're  treating  me  like  a  child,"  she  charged. 

"How  do  you  want  me  to  treat  you?" 


Enchantment  71 

"  As  a  woman,"  she  flashed,  and  was  suddenly  appalled  to  feel 
the  blood  flush  incredibly  to  her  cheeks. 

If  he  noted  the  phenomenon,  he  gave  no  sign,  simply  assenting 
with  his  customary  equanimity.  During  the  luncheon  she  chat 
tered  vaguely.  She  was  in  two  minds  about  calling  off  the  pro 
jected  walk.  As  he  set  aside  his  half-emptied  cup  of  coffee  —  not 
even  tactful  enough  to  finish  it  out  of  compliment  to  her  brew  — 
Banneker  said : 

"Up  beyond  the  turn  yonder  the  right-of-way  crosses  an 
arroyo.  I  want  to  take  a  look  at  it.  We  can  cut  through  the 
woods  to  get  there.  Are  you  good  for  three  miles?" 

"For  a  hundred !"  cried  lo. 

The  wine  of  life  was  potent  in  her  veins. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BEFORE  the  walk  was  over,  lo  knew  Banneker  as  she  had  never 
before,  in  her  surrounded  and  restricted  life,  known  any  man ; 
the  character  and  evolution  and  essence  of  him.  Yet  with  all  his 
frankness,  the  rare,  simple,  and  generous  outgiving  of  a  naturally 
rather  silent  nature  yielding  itself  to  an  unrecognized  but  over 
mastering  influence,  he  retained  the  charm  of  inner  mystery. 
Her  sudden  understanding  of  him  still  did  not  enable  her  to  place 
him  in  any  category  of  life  as  she  knew  it  to  be  arranged. 

The  revelation  had  come  about  through  her  description  of  her 
encounter  with  the  queer  and  attentive  bird  of  the  desert. 

"Oh,"  said  Banneker.  "You've  been  interviewing  a  cactus 
owl." 

"Did  he  unwind  his  neck  carefully  and  privately  after  I  had 
gone?" 

"No,"  returned  Banneker  gravely.  "He  just  jumped  in  the 
air  and  his  body  spun  around  until  it  got  back  to  its  original 
relation." 

"How  truly  fascinating !  Have  you  seen  him  do  it?" 

"Not  actually  seen.  But  often  in  the  evenings  I've  heard  them 
buzzing  as  they  unspin  the  day's  wind-up.  During  the  day,  you 
see,  they  make  as  many  as  ten  or  fifteen  revolutions  until  their 
eyes  bung  out.  Reversing  makes  them  very  dizzy,  and  if  you  are 
around  when  they're  doing  it,  you  can  often  pick  them  up  off 
the  sand." 

"And  doesn't  it  ever  make  you  dizzy?  All  this  local  lore,  I 
mean,  that  you  carry  around  in  your  head?" 

"It  isn't  much  of  a  strain  to  a  practiced  intellect,"  he  depre 
cated.  "If  you're  interested  in  natural  history,  there's  the  Side- 
hill  Wampus  — " 

"Yes;  I  know.  I've  been  West  before,  thank  you !  Pardon  my 
curiosity,  but  are  all  you  creatures  of  the  desert  queer  and 
inexplicable?" 

"Not  me,"  he  returned  promptly  if  ungrammatically,  "if 
you're  looking  in  my  direction." 


Enchantment  73 

"I'll  admit  that  I  find  you  as  interesting  as  the  owl  —  almost. 
And  quite  as  hard  to  understand." 

"  Nobody  ever  called  me  queer  ;  not  to  my  face." 

"But  you  are,  you  know.  You  oughtn't  to  be  here  at  all." 

"Where  ought  I  to  be?" 

"How  can  I  answer  that  riddle  without  knowing  where  you 
have  been?  Are  you  Ulysses — " 

" '  Knowing  cities  and  the  hearts  of  men/  "  he  answered,  quick 
to  catch  the  reference.  "No;  not  the  cities,  certainly,  and  very 
little  of  the  men." 

"  There,  you  see !"  she  exclaimed  plaintively.  "  You're  up  on  a 
classical  reference  like  a  college  man.  No ;  not  like  the  college 
men  I  know,  either.  They  are  too  immersed  in  their  football  and 
rowing  and  too  afraid  to  be  thought  highbrow,  to  confess  to 
knowing  anything  about  Ulysses.  What  was  your  college?" 

"This,"  he  said,  sweeping  a  hand  around  the  curve  of  the 
horizon. 

"And  in  any  one  else,"  she  retorted,  "that  would  be  priggish 
as  well  as  disingenuous." 

"I  suppose  I  know  what  you  mean.  Out  here,  when  a  man 
doesn't  explain  himself,  they  think  it's  for  some  good  reason  of 
his  own,  or  bad  reason,  more  likely.  In  either  case,  they  don't 
ask  questions." 

"I  really  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Banneker  !" 

"No ;  that  isn't  what  I  meant  at  all.  If  you're  interested,  I'd 
like  to  have  you  know  about  me.  It  isn't  much,  though." 

"You'll  think  me  prying,"  she  objected. 

"I  think  you  a  sort  of  friend  of  a  day,  who  is  going  away  very 
soon  leaving  pleasant  memories,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "A 
butterfly  visit.  I'm  not  much  given  to  talking,  but  if  you'd 
like  it—" 

"Of  course  I  should  like  it." 

So  he  sketched  for  her  his  history.  His  mother  he  barely 
remembered;  "dark,  and  quite  beautiful,  I  believe,  though  that 
might  be  only  a  child's  vision ;  my  father  rarely  spoke  of  her,  but 
I  think  all  the  emotional  side  of  his  life  was  buried  with  her."1 
The  father,  an  American  of  Danish  ancestry,  had  been  ousted 


74  Success 

from  the  chair  of  Sociology  in  old,  conservative  Havenden  Col 
lege,  as  the  logical  result  of  his  writings  which,  because  they 
shrewdly  and  clearly  pointed  out  certain  ulcerous  spots  in  the 
economic  and  social  system,  were  denounced  as  " radical"  by  a 
Board  of  Trustees  honestly  devoted  to  Business  Ideals.  Having 
a  small  income  of  his  own,  the  ex-Professor  decided  upon  a  life 
of  investigatory  vagrancy,  with  special  reference  to  studies,  at 
first  hand,  of  the  voluntarily  unemployed.  Not  knowing  what 
else  to  do  with  the  only  child  of  his  marriage,  he  took  the  boy 
along.  Contemptuous  of,  rather  than  embittered  against,  an 
academic  system  which  had  dispensed  with  his  services  because 
it  was  afraid  of  the  light  —  "When  you  cast  a  light,  they  see 
only  the  resultant  shadows,"  was  one  of  his  sayings  which  had 
remained  with  Banneker  —  he  had  resolved  to  educate  the  child 
himself. 

Their  life  was  spent  frugally  in  cities  where  they  haunted 
libraries,  or,  sumptuously,  upon  the  open  road  where  a  modest 
supply  of  ready  cash  goes  a  long  way.  Young  Banneker's  educa 
tion,  after  the  routine  foundation,  was  curiously  heterodox,  but 
he  came  through  it  with  his  intellectual  digestion  unimpaired  and 
his  mental  appetite  avid.  By  example  he  had  the  competent  self- 
respect  and  unmistakable  bearing  of  a  gentleman,  and  by  careful 
precept  the  speech  of  a  liberally  educated  man.  When  he  was 
seventeen,  his  father  died  of  atwenty-four  hours' pneumonia,  leav 
ing  the  son  not  so  much  stricken  as  bewildered,  for  their  relations 
had  been  comradely  rather  than  affectionate.  For  a  time  it  was 
a  question  whether  the  youngster,  drifting  from  casual  job  to 
casual  job,  would  not  degenerate  into  a  veritable  hobo,  for  he 
had  drunk  deep  of  the  charm  of  the  untrammeled  and  limitless 
road.  Want  touched  him,  but  lightly ;  for  he  was  naturally  frugal 
and  hardy.  He  got  a  railroad  job  by  good  luck,  and  it  was  not 
until  he  had  worked  himself  into  a  permanency  that  his  father's 
lawyers  found  and  notified  him  of  the  possession  of  a  small 
income,  one  hundred  dollars  per  annum  of  which,  they  informed 
him,  was  to  be  expended  by  them  upon  such  books  as  they 
thought  suitable  to  his  circumstances,  upon  information  pro 
vided  by  the  deceased,  the  remainder  to  be  at  his  disposal. 


Enchantment  75 

Though  quite  unauthorized  to  proffer  advice,  as  they  honor- 
&bly  stated,  they  opined  that  the  heir's  wisest  course  would  be  to 
prepare  himself  at  once  for  college,  the  income  being  sufficient 
to  take  him  through,  with  care  —  and  they  were,  his  Very  Truly, 
Cobb  &  Morse. 

Banneker  had  not  the  smallest  idea  of  cooping  up  his  mind  in  a 
college.  As  to  future  occupation,  his  father  had  said  nothing 
that  was  definite.  His  thesis  was  that  observation  and  thought 
concerning  men  and  their  activities,  pointed  and  directed  by 
intimate  touch  with  what  others  had  observed  and  set  down  — 
that  is,  through  books  —  was  the  gist  of  life.  Any  job  which  gave 
opportunity  or  leisure  for  this  was  good  enough.  Livelihood  was 
but  a  garment,  at  most ;  life  was  the  body  beneath.  Furthermore, 
young  Banneker  would  find,  so  his  senior  had  assured  him,  that 
he  possessed  an  open  sesame  to  the  minds  of  the  really  intelligent 
wheresoever  he  might  encounter  them,  in  the  form  of  a  jewel 
which  he  must  keep  sedulously  untarnished  and  bright.  What 
was  that  ?  asked  the  boy.  His  speech  and  bearing  of  a  cultivated 
man. 

Young  Banneker  found  that  it  was  almost~miraculously  true. 
Wherever  he  went,  he  established  contacts  with  people  who 
interested  him  and  whom  he  interested :  here  a  brilliant,  doubt 
ing,  perturbed  clergyman,  slowly  dying  of  tuberculosis  in  the 
desert ;  there  a  famous  geologist  from  Washington  who,  after  a 
night  of  amazing  talk  with  the  young  prodigy  while  awaiting  a 
train,  took  him  along  on  a  mountain  exploration ;  again  an  artist 
and  his  wife  who  were  painting  the  arid  and  colorful  glories  of  the 
waste  places.  From  these  and  others  he  got  much ;  but  not  friend 
ship  or  permanent  associations.  He  did  not  want  them.  He  was 
essentially,  though  unconsciously,  a  lone  spirit ;  so  his  listener 
gathered.  Advancement  could  have  been  his  in  the  line  of  work 
which  had  by  chance  adopted  him ;  but  he  preferred  small,  out- 
of-the-way  stations,  where  he  could  be  with  his  books  and  have 
room  to  breathe.  So  here  he  was  at  Manzanita.  That  was  all 
there  was  to  it.  Nothing  very  mysterious  or  remarkable  about 
it,  was  there? 

lo  smiled  in  return.  "What  is  your  name?"  she  asked. 


76  Success 

"  Errol.  But  every  one  calls  me  Ban." 
"Haven't  you  ever  told  this  to  any  one  before?" 
"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"I  don't  know  really,"  hesitated  the  girl,  "except  that  it  seems 
almost  inhuman  to  keep  one's  self  so  shut  off." 

"It's  nobody  else's  business." 

"Yet  you've  told  it  to  me.  That's  very  charming  of  you." 

"You  said  you'd  be  interested." 

"  So  I  am.  It's  an  extraordinary  life,  though  you  don't  seem 
to  think  so." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  extraordinary." 

"Of  course  you  do,"  she  refuted  promptly.  "To  be  ordinary 
is  —  is  —  well,  it's  like  being  a  dust-colored  beetle."  She  looked 
at  him  queerly.  "  Doesn't  Miss  Van  Arsdale  know  all  this  ?" 

"I  don't  see  how  she  could.  I've  never  told  her." 

"And  she's  never  asked  you  anything?" 

"Not  a  word.  I  don't  quite  see  Miss  Camilla  asking  any  one 
questions  about  themselves.  Did  she  ask  you?" 

The  girl's  color  deepened  almost  imperceptibly.  "You're 
right,"  she  said.  '  There's  a  standard  of  breeding  that  we  up-to- 
date  people  don't  attain.  But  I'm  at  least  intelligent  enough  to 
recognize  it.  You  reckon  her  as  a  friend,  don't  you  ?" 

"Why,  yes ;  I  suppose  so." 

"Do  you  suppose  you'd  ever  come  to  reckon  me  as  one?"  she 
asked,  half  bantering,  half  wistful. 

"There  won't  be  time.  You're  running  away." 

"Perhaps  I  might  write  you.  I  think  I'd  like  to." 

"Would  you?  "he  murmured.  "Why?" 

"You  ought  to  be  greatly  flattered,"  she  reproved  him.  "In 
stead  you  shoot  a  'why '  at  me.  Well ;  because  you've  got  some 
thing  I  haven't  got.  And  when  I  find  anything  new  like  that,  I 
always  try  to  get  some  of  it  for  myself." 

"I  don't  know  what  it  could  be,  but  — 

"Call  it  your  philosophy  of  life.  Your  contentment.  Or  is  it 
only  detachment?  That  can't  last,  you  know." 


Enchantment  77 

He  turned  to  her,  vaguely  disturbed  as  by  a  threat.  "Why 
not?" 

"You're  too  —  well,  distinctive.  You're  too  rare  and  beautiful 
a  specimen.  You'll  be  grabbed."  She  laughed  softly. 

"Who '11  grab  me?" 

"How  should  I  know?  Life,  probably.  Grab  you  and  dry  you 
up  and  put  you  in  a  case  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"Perhaps  that's  why  I  like  to  stay  out  here.  At  least  I  can  be 
myself." 

"Is  that  your  fondest  ambition?" 

However  much  he  may  have  been  startled  by  the  swift  stab, 
he  gave  no  sign  of  hurt  in  his  reply. 

"Call  it  the  line  of  least  resistance.  In  any  case,  I  shouldn't 
like  to  be  grabbed  and  dried  up." 

"Most  of  us  are  grabbed  and  catalogued  from  our  birth,  and 
eventually  dried  up  and  set  in  our  proper  places." 

"Not  you,  certainly." 

"Because  you  haven't  seen  me  in  my  shell.  That's  where  I 
mostly  live.  I've  broken  out  for  a  time." 

"Don't  you  like  it  outside,  Butterfly?"  he  queried  with  a  hint 
of  playful  caress  in  his  voice. 

"I  like  that  name  for  myself,"  she  returned  quickly.  "Though 
a  butterfly  couldn't  return  to  its  chrysalis,  no  matter  how  much  it 
wanted  to,  could  it?  But  you  may  call  me  that,  since  we're  to  be 
friends." 

"Then  you  do  like  it  outside  your  shell." 

"It's  exhilarating.  But  I  suppose  I  should  find  it  too  rough  for 
my  highly  sensitized  skin  in  the  long  run.  .  . .  Are  you  going  to 
write  to  me  if  I  write  to  you?" 

"What  about?  That  Number  Six  came  in  making  bad  steam, 
and  that  a  westbound  freight,  running  extra,  was  held  up  on  the 
siding  at  Marchand  for  half  a  day?" 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  write  about?" 

Banneker  bethought  himself  of  the  very  private  dossier  in  his 
office.  "No;  it  isn't." 

"  You  could  write  in  a  way  all  your  own.  Have  you  ever  written 
anything  for  publication?" 


78  Success 

"No.  That  is  — well  — I  don't  really  know."  He  told  her 
about  Gardner  and  the  description  of  the  wreck. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  do  that?"  she  asked  curiously. 

"Oh,  I  write  a  lot  of  things  and  put  them  away  and  forget 
them." 

"Show  me,"  she  wheedled.  "I'd  love  to  see  them." 

He  shook  his  head.  "They  wouldn't  interest  you."  The  words 
were  those  of  an  excuse.  But  in  the  tone  was  finality. 

"I  don't  think  you're  very  responsive,"  she  complained. 
"  I'm  awfully  interested  in  you  and  your  affairs,  and  you  won't 
play  back  the  least  bit." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  space.  He  had,  she  reflected,  a 
most  disconcerting  trick  of  silence,  of  ignoring  quite  without 
embarrassment  leads,  which  in  her  code  imperatively  called  for 
return.  Annoyance  stirred  within  her,  and  the  eternal  feline 
which  is  a  component  part  of  the  eternal  feminine  asserted  itself. 

"Perhaps,"  she  suggested,  "you  are  afraid  of  me." 

"No;  I'm  not." 

"By  that  you  mean  'Why  should  I  be'?" 

"Something  of  the  sort." 

"Didn't  Miss  Van  ArsdaleVarn  you  against  me?" 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  he  asked,  staring. 

"A  solemn  warning  not  to  fall  in  love  with  me?"  pursued  the 
girl  calmly. 

He  stopped^short.  "  She  told  you  that  she  had  said  something 
tome?" 

"Don't  be  idiotic!  Of  course  she  didn't." 

"Then  how  did  you  know?"  he  persisted. 

"How  does  one  snake  know  what  another  snake  will  do?"  sne 
retorted.  "Being  of  the  same  — " 

"Wait  a  moment.  I  don't  like  that  word  'snake'  in  connection 
with  Miss  Van  Arsdale." 

"Though  you're  willing  to  accept  it  as  applying  to  me.  I  be 
lieve  you  are  trying  to  quarrel  with  me,"  accused  lo.  "I  only 
meant  that,  being  a  woman,  I  can  make  a  guess  at  what  another 
woman  would  do  in  any  given  conditions.  And  she  did  it !"  she 
concluded  in  triumph. 


Enchantment  79 

"No;  she  didn't.  Not  in  so  many  words.  But  you're  very 
clever." 

"Say,  rather,  that  you  are  very  stupid,"  was  the  disdainful 
retort.  "So  you're  not  going  to  fall  in  love  with  me?" 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Banneker  in  the  most  cheerfully 
commonplace  of  tones. 

Once  embarked  upon  this  primrose  path,  which  is  always  an 
imperceptible  but  easy  down-slope,  lo  went  farther  than  she  had 
intended.  "Why  not?"  she  challenged. 

"Brass  buttons,"  said  Banneker  concisely.          * 

She  flushed  angrily.  "  You  can  be  rather  a  beast,  can't  you !" 

"A  beast?  Just  for  reminding  you  that  the  Atkinson  &  St. 
Philip  station-agent  at  Manzanita  does  not  include  in  his  official 
duties  that  of  presuming  to  fall  in  love  with  chance  passengers 
who  happen  to  be  more  or  less  in  his  care." 

"Very  proper  and  official !  Now,"  added  the  girl  in  a  different 
manner,  "let's  stop  talking  nonsense,  and  do  you  tell  me  one 
thing  honestly.  Do  you  feel  that  it  would  be  presumption?" 

"To  fall  in  love  with  you?" 

"Leave  that  part  of  it  out;  I  put  my  question  stupidly.  I'm 
really  curious  to  know  whether  you  feel  any  —  any  difference 
oetween  your  station  and  mine." 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes ;  I  do,"  she  answered  honestly,  "when  I  think  of  it.  But 
you  make  it  very  hard  for  me  to  remember  it  when  I'm  with  you." 

"Well,  I  don't,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  I'm  a  socialist  in  all 
matters  of  that  kind.  Not  that  I've  ever  given  much  thought  to 
them.  You  don't  have  to  out  here." 

"No;  you  wouldn't.  I  don't  know  that  you  would  have  to 
anywhere. . . .  Are  we  almost  home?" 

"Three  minutes'  more  walking.  Tired?" 

"Not  a  bit.  You  know,"  she  added,  "I  really  would  like  it  if 
you'd  write  me  once  in  a  while.  There's  something  here  I'd  like 
to  keep  a  hold  on.  It's  tonic.  I'll  make  you  write  me."  She 
Cashed  a  smile  at  him. 

"How?" 

"By  sending  you  books.  You'll  have  to  acknowledge  them." 


80  Success 


"No.  I  couldn't  take  them.  I'd  have  to  send  them  back." 

'''  You  wouldn't  let  me  send  you  a  book  or  two  just  as  a  friendly 
memento?"  she  cried,  incredulous. 

"I  don't  take  anything  from  anybody,"  he  retorted  doggedly. 

"  Ah ;  that's  small-minded,"  she  accused.  "That's  ungenerous. 
I  wouldn't  think  that  of  you." 

He  strode  along  in  moody  thought  for  a  few  paces.  Presently 
he  turned  to  her  a  rigid  face.  "  If  you  had  ever  had  to  accept  food 
to  keep  you  alive,  you'd  understand." 

For  a  moment  she  was  shocked  and  sorry.  Then  her  tact  as 
serted  itself.  "But  I  have,"  she  said  readily,  "all  my  life.  Most 
of  us  do." 

The  hard  muscles  around  his  mouth  relaxed.  "You  remind 
me,"  he  said,  "  that  I'm  not  as  real  a  socialist  as  I  thought.  Nev 
ertheless,  that  rankles  in  my  memory.  When  I  got  my  first  job,  I 
swore  I'd  never  accept  anything  from  anybody  again.  One  of  the 
passengers  on  your  train  tried  to  tip  me  a  hundred  dollars." 

"He  must  have  been  a  fool,"  said  lo  scornfully. 

Banneker  held  open  the  station-door  for  her.  "I've  got  to 
send  a  wire  or  two,"  said  he.  "Take  a  look  at  this.  It  may  give 
some  news  about  general  railroad  conditions."  He  handed  her 
the  newspaper  which  had  arrived  that  morning. 

When  he  came  out  again,  the  station  was  empty. 

lo  was  gone.  So  was  the  newspaper. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEEP  in  work  at  her  desk,  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  noted,  with  the 
outer  tentacles  of  her  mind,  slow  footsteps  outside  and  a  stir  of 
air  that  told  of  the  door  being  opened.  Without  lifting  her  head 
she  called : 

"You'll  find  towels  and  a  bathrobe  in  the  passageway." 

There  was  no  reply.  Miss  Van  Arsdale  twisted  in  her  chair, 
gave  one  look,  rose  and  strode  to  the  threshold  where  lo  Welland 
stood  rigid  and  still. 

"What  is  it?"  she  demanded  sharply. 

The  girl's  hands  gripped  a  folded  newspaper.  She  lifted  it  as  if 
for  Miss  Van  Arsdale's  acceptance,  then  let  it  fall  to  the  floor. 
Her  throat  worked,  struggling  for  utterance,  as  it  might  be 
against  the  pressure  of  invisible  fingers. 

"The  beast !  Oh,  the  beast !"  she  whispered. 

The  older  woman  threw  an  arm  over  her  shoulders  and  led  her 
to  the  big  chair  before  the  fireplace.  lo  let  herself  be  thrust  into 
it,  stiff  and  unyielding  as  a  manikin.  Any  other  woman  but  Ca 
milla  Van  Arsdale  would  have  asked  questions.  She  went  more 
directly  to  the  point.  Picking  up  the  newspaper  she  opened  it. 
Halfway  across  an  inside  page  ran  the  explanation  of  lo's  col 
lapse. 

BRITON'S  BEAUTIFUL  FIANCEE  LOST 

read  the  caption,  in  the  glaring  vulgarity  of  extra-heavy  type, 
and  below ; 

Ducal  Heir  Offers  Private  Reward  to  Dinner  Party  of  Friends 

After  an  estimating  look  at  the  girl,  who  sat  quite  still  with 
hot,  blurred  eyes,  Miss  Van  Arsdale  carefully  read  the  article 
through. 

"Here  is  advertising  enough  to  satisfy  the  greediest  appetite 
for  print,"  she  remarked  grimly. 

"He's  on  one  of  his  brutal  drunks."  The  words  seemed  to  grit 


82  Success 

in  the  girl's  throat.  "I  wish  he  were  dead!  Oh,  I  wish  he  were 
dead!" 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  laid  hold  on  her  shoulders  and  shook  her 
hard.  "Listen  to  me,  Irene  Welland.  You're  on  the  way  to 
hysterics  or  some  such  foolishness.  I  won't  have  it!  Do  you 
understand?  Are  you  listening  to  me?" 

"I'm  listening.  But  it  won't  make  any  difference  what  you 
say." 

"Look  at  me.  Don't  stare  into  nothingness  that  way.  Have 
you  read  this?" 

"Enough  of  it.  It  ends  everything." 

"I  should  hope  so,  indeed.  My  dear!"  The  woman's  voice 
changed  and  softened.  "You  haven't  found  that  you  cared  for 
him,  after  all,  more  than  you  thought?  It  isn't  that?" 

"No ;  it  isn't  that.  It's  the  beastliness  of  the  whole  thing.  It's 
the  disgrace." 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  turned  to  the  paper  again. 

"Your  name  isn't  given." 

"It  might  as  well  be.  As  soon  as  it  gets  back  to  New  York, 
every  one  will  know." 

"If  I  read  correctly  between  the  lines  of  this  scurrilous  thing, 
Mr.  Holmesley  gave  what  was  to  have  been  his  bachelor  dinner, 
took  too  much  to  drink,  and  suggested  that  every  man  there  go 
on  a  separate  search  for  the  lost  bride  offering  two  thousand  dol 
lars  reward  for  the  one  who  found  her.  Apparently  it  was  to 
have  been  quite  private,  but  it  leaked  out.  There's  a  hint  that 
he  had  been  drinking  heavily  for  some  days." 

"My  fault,"  declared  lo  feverishly.  "He  told  me  once  that  if 
ever  I  played  anything  but  fair  with  him,  he'd  go  to  the  devil  the 
quickest  way  he  could." 

"Then  he's  a  coward,"  pronounced  Miss  Van  Arsdale  vigor 
ously. 

"What  am  I?  I  didn't  play  fair  with  him.  I  practically  jilted 
him  without  even  letting  him  know  why." 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  frowned.  "Didn't  you  send  him  word?" 

"Yes.  I  telegraphed  him.  I  told  him  I'd  write  and  explain. 
I  haven't  written.  How  could  I  explain  ?  What  was  there  to  say  ? 


Enchantment  83 

But  I  ought  to  have  said  something.  Oh,  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  why 
didn't  I  write!" 

"But  you  did  intend  to  go  on  and  face  him  and  have  it  out. 
You  told  me  that." 

A  faint  tinge  of  color  relieved  the  white  rigidity  of  lo's  face. 
"  Yes,"  she  agreed.  "  I  did  mean  it.  Now  it's  too  late  and  I'm  dis 
graced." 

"  Don't  be  melodramatic.  And  don't  waste  yourself  in  self- 
pity.  To-morrow  you'll  see  things  clearer,  after  you've  slept." 

"Sleep?  I  couldn't."  She  pressed  both  hands  to  her  temples, 
lifting  tragic  and  lustrous  eyes  to  her  companion.  "I  think  my 
head  is  going  to  burst  from  trying  not  to  think." 

After  some  hesitancy  Miss  Van  Arsdale  went  to  a  wall-cabinet, 
took  out  a  phial,  shook  into  her  hand  two  little  pellets,  and 
returned  the  phial,  carefully  locking  the  cabinet  upon  it. 

"Take  a  hot  bath,"  she  directed.  "Then  I'm  going  to  give  you 
just  a  little  to  eat.  And  then  these."  She  held  out  the  drug. 

lo  acquiesced  dully. 

Early  in  the  morning,  before  the  first  forelight  of  dawn  had 
started  the  birds  to  prophetic  chirpings,  the  recluse  heard  light 
movements  in  the  outer  room.  Throwing  on  a  robe  she  went  in 
to  investigate.  On  the  bearskin  before  the  flickering  fire  sat  lo, 
an  apparition  of  soft  curves. 

"D  —  d  —  don't  make  a  light,"  she  whimpered.  "I've  been 
crying." 

"That's  good.  The  best  thing  you  could  do." 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  wailed  lo. 

"That's  good,  too.  Though  perhaps  you'd  better  wait  a  little. 
Why,  in  particular  do  you  want  to  go  home  ?" 

"I  w-w-w-want  to  m-m-marry  Delavan  Eyre." 

A  quiver  of  humor  trembled  about  the  corners  of  Camilla 
Van  Arsdale's  mouth.  "Echoes  of  remorse,"  she  commented. 

"No.  It  isn't  remorse.  I  want  to  feel  safe,  secure.  I'm  afraid 
of  things.  I  want  to  go  to-morrow.  Tell  Mr.  Banneker  he  must 
arrange  it  for  me." 

"We'll  see,  Now  you  go  back  to  bed  and  sleep." 

"I'd  rather  sleep  here,"  said  lo.  "The  fire  is  so  friendly." 
She  curled  herself  into  a  little  soft  ball. 


84  Success 

Her  hostess  threw  a  coverlet  over  her  and  returned  to  her  own 
room. 

When  light  broke,  there  was  no  question  of  lo's  going  that  day, 
even  had  accommodations  been  available.  A  clogging  lassitude 
had  descended  upon  her,  the  reaction  of  cumulative  nervous 
stress,  anesthetizing  her  will,  her  desires,  her  very  limbs.  She 
was  purposeless,  ambitionless,  except  to  lie  and  rest  and  seek  for 
some  resolution  of  peace  out  of  the  tangled  web  wherein  her  own 
willfulness  had  involved  her. 

"The  best  possible  thing,"  said  Camilla  Van  Arsdale.  "I'll 
write  your  people  that  you  are  staying  on  for  a  visit." 

"Yes;  they  won't  mind.  They're  used  to  my  vagaries.  It's 
awfully  good  of  you." 

At  noon  came  Banneker  to  see  Miss  Welland.  Instead  he 
found  a  curiously  reticent  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  Miss  Welland  was 
not  feeling  well  and  could  not  be  seen. 

"Not  her  head  again,  is  it?"  asked  Banneker,  alarmed. 

"More  nerves,  though  the  head  injury  probably  contributed." 

"  Oughtn't  I  to  get  a  doctor  ?  " 

"No.  All  that  she  needs  is  rest." 

"She  left  the  station  yesterday  without  a  word." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  non-committal  Miss  Van  Arsdale. 

"I  came  over  to  tell  her  that  there  isn't  a  thing  to  be  had  going 
west.  Not  even  an  upper.  There  was  an  east-bound  in  this  morn 
ing.  But  the  schedule  isn't  even  a  skeleton  yet." 

"Probably  she  won't  be  going  for  several  days  yet,"  said  Miss 
Van  Arsdale,  and  was  by  no  means  reassured  by  the  unconscious 
brightness  which  illumined  Banneker's  face.  "When  she  goes 
it  will  be  east.  She's  changed  her  plans." 

"  Give  me  as  much  notice  as  you  can  and  I'll  do  my  best  for 
her." 

The  other  nodded.  "Did  you  get  any  newspapers  by  the 
train?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes ;  there  was  a  mail  in.  I  had  a  letter,  too,"  he  added  after 
a  little  hesitation,  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  intended  telling 
Miss  Welland  about  that  letter  first.  Thus  do  confidences,  once 
begun,  inspire  even  the  self-contained  to  further  confidences. 


Enchantment  85 

"You  know  there  was  a  reporter  up  from  Angelica  City  writing 
up  the  wreck." 

"Yes." 

"Gardner,  his  name  is.  A  nice  sort  of  fellow.  I  showed  him 
some  nonsense  that  I  wrote  about  the  wreck." 

"You?  What  kind  of  nonsense?" 

"Oh,  just  how  it  struck  me,  and  the  queer  things  people  said 
and  did.  He  took  it  with  him.  Said  it  might  give  him  some 
ideas." 

"One  might  suppose  it  would.  Did  it?" 

"Why,  he  didn't  use  it.  Not  that  way.  He  sent  it  to  the  New 
York  Sphere  for  what  he  calls  a  'Sunday  special/  and  what  do 
you  think !  They  accepted  it.  He  had  a  wire." 

"As  Gardner's?" 

"Oh,  no.  As  the  impressions  of  an  eye-witness.  What's  more, 
they'll  pay  for  it  and  he's  to  send  me  the  check." 

"Then,  in  spite  of  a  casual  way  of  handling  other  people's 
ideas,  Mr.  Gardner  apparently  means  to  be  honest." 

"It's  more  than  square  of  him.  I  gave  him  the  stuff  to  use  as 
he  wanted  to.  He  could  just  as  well  have  collected  for  it.  Prob 
ably  he  touched  it  up,  anyway." 

"The  Goths  and  Vandals  usually  did  'touch  up'  whatever 
they  acquired,  I  believe.  Hasn't  he  sent  you  a  copy  ?  " 

"He's  going  to  send  it.  Or  bring  it." 

"Bring  it?  What  should  attract  him  to  Manzanita  again ?" 

"Something  mysterious.  He  says  that  there's  a  big  sensa 
tional  story  following  on  the  wreck  that  he's  got  a  clue  to ;  a  tip, 
he  calls  it." 

' '  That's  strange.  Where  did  this  tip  come  from  ?  Did  he  say  ?  " 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  frowned. 

"New  York,  I  think.  He  spoke  of  its  being  a  special  job  for 
The  Sphere." 

"Are  you  going  to  help  him?" 

"If  I  can.  He's  been  white  to  me." 

"  But  this  isn't  white,  if  it's  what  I  suspect.  It's  yellow.  One  of 
their  yellow  sensations.  The  Sphere  goes  in  for  that  sort  oi 
thing." 


86  Success 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  became  silent  and  thoughtful. 

"Of  course,  if  it's  something  to  do  with  the  railroad  I'd  have  to 
be  careful.  I  can't  give  away  the  company's  affairs." 

"I  don't  think  it  is."  Miss  Van  Arsdale's  troubled  eyes 
strayed  toward  the  inner  room. 

Following  them,  Banneker's  lighted  up  with  a  flash  of  aston 
ished  comprehension. 

"You  don't  think  — "  he  began. 

His  friend  nodded  assent. 

"Why  should  the  newspapers  be  after  her?" 

"  She  is  associated  with  a  set  that  is  always  in  the  limelight," 
explained  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  lowering  her  voice  to  a  cautious 
pitch.  "It  makes  its  own  limelight.  Anything  that  they  do  is 
material  for  the  papers." 

"Yes;  but  what  has  she  done?" 

"Disappeared." 

"Not  at  all.  She  sent  back  messages.  So  there  can't  be  any 
mystery  about  it." 

"But  there  might  be  what  the  howling  headlines  call  'ro 
mance.'  In  fact,  there  is,  if  they  happen  to  have  found  out  about 
it.  And  this  looks  very  much  as  if  they  had.  Ban,  are  you  going 
to  tell  your  reporter  friend  about  Miss  Welland?" 

Banneker smiled  gently, indulgently.  "Po  youthinkit  likely  ?  " 

"No ;  I  don't.  But  I  want  you  to  understand  the  importance 
of  not  betraying  her  in  any  way.  Reporters  are  shrewd.  And  it 
might  be  quite  serious  for  her  to  know  that  she  was  being  fol 
lowed  and  hounded  now.  She  has  had  a  shock." 

"The  bump  on  the  head,  you  mean?" 

"  Worse  than  that.  I  think  I'd  better  tell  you  since  we  are  all 
in  this  thing  together." 

Briefly  she  outlined  the  abortive  adventure  that  had  brought 
lo  west,  and  its  ugly  outcome. 

"Publicity  is  the  one  thing  we  must  protect  her  from,"  de« 
clared  Miss  Van  Arsdale. 

"Yes;  that's  clear  enough." 

"What  shall  you  tell  this  Gardner  man?" 

"Nothing  that  he  wants  to  know." 


Enchantment  87 

"You'll  try  to  fool  him?" 

"I'm  an  awfully  poor  liar,  Miss  Camilla,"  replied  the  agent 
with  his  disarming  smile.  "I  don't  like  the  game  and  I'm  no 
good  at  it.  But  I  can  everlastingly  hold  my  tongue." 

"Then  he'll  suspect  something  and  go  nosing  about  the  village 
making  inquiries." 

"Let  him.  Who  can  tell  him  anything?  Who's  even  seen  her 
except  you  and  me?" 

"True  enough.  Nobody  is  going  to  see  her  for  some  days  yet  if 
I  can  help  it.  Not  even  you,  Ban." 

"Is  she  as  bad  as  that?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"She  won't  be  any  the  better  for  seeing  people,"  replied  Miss 
Van  Arsdale  firmly,  and  with  that  the  caller  was  forced  to  be 
content  as  he  went  back  to  his  own  place. 

The  morning  train  of  the  nineteenth,  which  should  have  been 
the  noon  train  of  the  eighteenth,  deposited  upon  the  platform 
Gardner  of  the  Angelica  City  Herald,  and  a  suitcase.  The  thin 
and  bespectacled  reporter  shook  hands  with  Banneker. 

"Well,  Mr.  Man,"  he  observed.  "You've  made  a  hit  with  that 
story  of  yours  even  before  it's  got  into  print." 

"  Did  you  bring  me  a  copy  of  the  paper  ?  " 

Gardner  grinned.  "You  seem  to  think  Sunday  specials  are  set 
up  and  printed  overnight.  Wait  a  couple  of  weeks." 

"But  they're  going  to  publish  it?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  They've  wired  me  to  know  who  you 
are  and  what  and  why." 

"Why  what?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno.  Why  a  fellow  who  can  do  that  sort  of  thing 
hasn't  done  it  before  or  doesn't  do  it  some  more,  I  suppose.  If 
you  should  ever  want  a  job  in  the  newspaper  game,  that  story 
would  be  pretty  much  enough  to  get  it  for  you." 

"I  wouldn't  mind  getting  a  little  local  correspondence  to  do," 
announced  Banneker  modestly. 

"  So  you  intimated  before.  Well,  I  can  give  you  some  practice 
right  now.  I'm  on  a  blind  trail  that  goes  up  in  the  air  somewhere 
around  here.  Do  you  remember,  we  compared  lists  on  the 
wreck?" 


88  Success 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  got  any  addition  to  your  list  since? " 

"No,"  replied  Banneker.  "Have  you?"  he  added. 

"Not  by  name.  But  the  tip  is  that  there  was  a  prominent  New 
'  York  society  girl,  one  of  the  Four  Hundred  lot,  on  the  train,  and 
that  she's  vanished." 

"All  the  bodies  were  accounted  for,"  said  the  agent. 

"They  don't  think  she's  dead.  They  think  she's  run  away." 

"Run  away?"  repeated  Banneker  with  an  impassive  face. 

"Whether  the  man  was  with  her  on  the  train  or  whether 
she  was  to  join  him  on  the  coast  isn't  known.  That's  the  worst 
of  these  society  tips,"  pursued  the  (reporter  discontentedly. 
"They're  always  vague,  and  usually  wrong.  This  one  isn't  even 
certain  about  who  the  girl  is.  But  they  think  it's  Stella  Wright- 
ington,"  he  concluded  in  the  manner  of  one  who  has  imparted 
portentous  tidings. 

"Who's  she?"  said  Banneker.  ' 

"Good  Lord !  Don't  you  ever  read  the  news?"  cried  the  dis 
gusted  journalist.  "Why,  she's  had  her  picture  published  more 
times  than  a  movie  queen.  She's  the  youngest  daughter  of  Cyrus 
Wrightington,  the  multi-millionaire  philanthropist.  Now  did 
you  see  anything  of  that  kind  on  the  train?" 

"What  does  she  look  like?"  asked  the  cautious  Banneker. 

"She  looks  like  a  million  dollars!"  declared  the  other  with 
enthusiasm.  "  She's  a  killer !  She's  tall  and  blonde  and  a  great 
athlete :  baby-blue  eyes  and  general  rosebud  effect." 

"Nothing  of  that  sort  on  the  train,  so  far  as  I  saw,"  said  the 
agent. 

"Did  you  see  any  couple  that  looked  lovey-dovey?" 

"No." 

"Then,  there's  another  tip  that  connects  her  up  with  Carter 
Holmesley.  Know  about  him?" 

"I've  seen  his  name." 

"He's  been  on  a  hell  of  a  high-class  drunk,  all  up  and  down 
the  coast,  for  the  last  week  or  so.  Spilled  some  funny  talk  at  a 
dinner,  that  got  into  print.  But  he  put  up  such  a  heavy  bluff  of 
libel,  afterward  that  the  papers  shied  off.  Just  the  same,  I 


Enchantment  89 

believe  they  had  it  right,  and  that  there  was  to  have  been  a 
wedding-party  on.  Find  the  girl :  that's  the  stunt  now." 

"I  don't  think  you're  likely  to  find  her  around  here." 

"  Maybe  not.  But  there's  something.  Holmesley  has  beaten  it 
for  the  Far  East.  Sailed  yesterday.  But  the  story  is  still  in  this 
country,  if  the  lady  can  be  rounded  up. . . .  Well,  I'm  going  to  the 
village  to  make  inquiries.  Want  to  put  me  up  again  for  the  night 
if  there's  no  train  back?" 

"Sure  thing !  There  isn't  likely  to  be,  either." 

Banneker  felt  greatly  relieved  at  the  easy  turn  given  to  the 
inquiry  by  the  distorted  tip.  True,  Gardner  might,  on  his  return, 
enter  upon  some  more  embarrassing  line  of  inquiry;  in  which 
case  the  agent  decided  to  take  refuge  in  silence.  But  the  reporter, 
when  he  came  back  late  in  the  evening  disheartened  and  dis 
gusted  with  the  fallibility  of  long-distance  tips,  declared  himself 
sick  of  the  whole  business. 

"Let's  talk  about  something  else,"  he  said,  having  lighted  his' 
pipe.  "What  else  have  you  written  besides  the  wreck  stuff?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Banneker. 

"Come  off!  That  thing  was  never  a  first  attempt." 

"  Well,  nothing  except  random  things  for  my  own  amuse 
ment." 

"Pass  'em  over." 

Banneker  shook  his  head.  "No;  I've  never  shown  them  to 
anybody." 

"Oh,  all  right.  If  you're  shy  about  it,"  responded  the  reporter 
good-humoredly.  "But  you  must  have  thought  of  writing  as  a 
profession." 

"Vaguely,  some  day." 

"You  don't  talk  much  like  a  country  station-agent.  And  you 
don't  act  like  one.  And,  judging  from  this  room"  —he  looked 
about  at  the  well-filled  book-shelves  —  "you  don't  look  like 
one.  Quite  a  library.  Harvey  Wheelwright !  Lord!  I  might  have 
known.  Great  stuff,  isn't  it?" 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Do  I  think  so !  I  think  it's  the  damndest  spew  that  ever  got 
into  print.  But  it  sells;  millions.  It's  the  piety  touch  does  it. 


90  Success 

The  worst  of  it  is  that  Wheelwright  is  a  thoroughly  decent 
chap  and  not  onto  himself  a  bit.  Thinks  he's  a  grand  little 
booster  for  righteousness,  sweetness  and  light,  and  all  that.  I ' 
had  to  interview  him  once.  Oh,  if  I  could  just  have  written 
about  him  and  his  stuff  as  it  really  is !" 

"Why  .didn't  you?" 

"Why,  he's  a  popular  literary  hero  out  our  way,  and  the  big 
gest  advertised  author  in  the  game.  I'd  look  fine  to  the  business 
office,  knocking  their  fat  graft,  wouldn't  II" 

"I  don't  believe  I  understand." 

"No;  you  wouldn't.  Never  mind.  You  will  if  you  ever  get 
into  the  game.  Hello !  This  is  something  different  again.  '  The 
Undying  Voices.'  Do  you  go  in  for  poetry?" 

"I  like  to  read  it  once  in  a  while." 

"  Good  man !"  Gardner  took  down  the  book,  which  opened  in 
his  hand.  He  glanced  into  it,  then  turned  an  inquiring  and  faintly 
quizzical  look  upon  Banneker.  "  So  Rossetti  is  one  of  the  voices 
that  sings  to  you.  He  sang  to  me  when  I  was  younger  and  more 
romantic.  Heavens  1  he  can  sing,  can't  he !  And  you've  picked 
one  of  his  finest  for  your  floral  decoration."  He  intoned  slowly 
and  effectively :  $ 

"Ah,  who  shall  dare  to  search  in  what  sad  maze 
Thenceforth  their  incommunicable  ways 
Follow  the  desultory  feet  of  Death?" 

Banneker  took  the  book  from  him.  Upon  the  sonnet  a  crushed 
bloom  of  the  sage  had  left  its  spiced  and  fragrant  stain.  How 
came  it  there?  Through  but  one  possible  agency  of  which 
Banneker  could  think.  lo  Welland ! 

After  the  reporter  had  left  him,  Banneker  bore  the  volume  to 
his  room  and  read  the  sonnet  again  and  again,  devout  and 
absorbed,  a  seeker  for  the  oracle. 


CHAPTER  X 

"WOULDN'T  you  like  to  know  when  I'm  going  home?" 

lo  Welland  looked  up  from  beneath  her  dark  lashes  at  her 
hostess  with  a  mixture  of  mischief  and  deprecation. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Van  Arsdale  quietly. 

"Ah?  Well,  I  would.  Here  it  is  two  full  weeks  since  I  settled 
down  on  you.  Why  don't  you  evict  me?" 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  smiled.     The  girl  continued : 

"  Why  don't  I  evict  myself  ?  I'm  quite  well  and  sane  again  — 
at  least  I  think  so  — •  thanks  to  you.  Very  well,  then,  lo ;  why 
don't  you  go  home  ?  " 

"Instinct  of  self -preservation,"  suggested  the  other.  "You're 
better  off  here  until  your  strength  is  quite  restored,  aren't  you  ?  " 

The  girl  propped  her  chin  in  her  hand  and  turned  upon  her 
companion  a  speculative  regard.  "Camilla  Van  Arsdale,  you 
don't  really  like  me,"  she  asserted. 

"Liking  is  such  an  undefined  attitude,"  replied  the  other,  un 
embarrassed. 

"You  find  me  diverting,"  defined  lo.  "But  you  resent  me, 
don't  you?" 

"That's  rather  acute  in  you.  I  don't  like  your  standards  noi 
those  of  your  set." 

"I've  abandoned  them." 

"You'll  resume  them  as  soon  as  you  get  back." 

"Shall  I  ever  get  back?"  The  girl  moved  to  the  door.  Her 
figure  swayed  forward  yieldingly  as  if  she  would  give  herself  into 
the  keeping  of  the  sun-drenched,  pine-soaked  air.  "Enchant 
ment!"  she  murmured. 

"It  is  a  healing  place,"  said  the  habitant  of  it,  low,  as  if  to  her 
self. 

A  sudden  and  beautiful  pity  softened  and  sobered  lo's  face. 
"Miss  Van  Arsdale,"  said  she  with  quiet  sincerity;  "if  there 
should  ever  come  a  time  when  I  can  do  you  a  service  in  word  or 
deed,  I  would  come  from  the  other  side  of  the  world  to  do  it." 

"That  is  a  kindly,  but  rather  exaggerated  gratitude." 


92  Success 

"It  isn't  gratitude.  It's  loyalty.  Whatever  you  have  done,  I 
believe  you  were  right.  And,  right  or  wrong,  I  —  I  am  on  your 
side.  But  I  wonder  why  you  have  been  so  good  to  me.  Was  it  a 
sort  of  class  feeling?" 

"Sex  feeling  would  be  nearer  it,"  replied  the  other.  "There  is 
something  instinctive  which  makes  women  who  are  alone  stand 
by  each  other." 

lo  nodded.  "I  suppose  so.  Though  I've  never  felt  it,  or  the 
need  of  it  before  this.  Well,  I  had  to  speak  before  I  left,  and  I 
suppose  I  must  go  on  soon." 

"I  shall  miss  you,"  said  the  hostess,  and  added,  smiling,  "as 
one  misses  a  stimulant.  Stay  through  the  rest  of  the  month, 
anyway." 

"I'd  like  to,"  answered  lo  gratefully.  "I've  written  Delavan 
that  I'm  coming  back  —  and  now  I'm  quite  dreading  it.  Do  you 
suppose  there  ever  yet  was  a  woman  with  understanding  of  her 
self?" 

"Not  unless  she  was  a  very  dull  and  stupid  woman  with  little 
to  understand,"  smiled  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  "What  are  you  doing 
to-day?" 

"Riding  down  to  lunch  with  your  paragon  of  a  station- 
agent." 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  shook  her  head  dubiously.  "I'm  afraid  he'll 
miss  his  daily  stimulant  after  you've  gone.  It  has  been  daily, 
hasn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  it  has,  just  about,"  admitted  the  girl.  "The  stim 
ulus  hasn't  been  all  on  one  side,  I  assure  you.  What  a  mind  to 
be  buried  here  in  the  desert!  And  what  an  annoying  spirit  of 
contentment !  It's  that  that  puzzles  me.  Sometimes  it  enrages 
me." 

"Are  you  going  to  spoil  what  you  cannot  replace?  "  The  retort 
was  swift,  almost  fierce. 

"Surely,  you  won't  blame  me  if  he  looks  beyond  this  horizon," 
protested  lo.  "Life  is  sure  to  reach  out  in  one  form  or  another 
and  seize  on  him.  I  told  him  so." 

"Yes,"  breathed  the  other.  "You  would." 

"What  were  vou  intending  to  do  with  him?" 


Enchantment  93 

There  was  a  hint  of  challenge  in  the  slight  emphasis  given  to 
the  query. 

"I?  Nothing.  He  is  under  no  obligation  to  me." 

"There  you  and  he  differ.  He  regards  you  as  an  infallible 
mentor. "  A  twinkle  of  malice  crept  into  the  slumbrous  eyes. 
"  Why  do  you  let  him  wear  made-up  bow  ties?"  demanded  lo. 

"What  does  it  matter?" 

"Out  here,  nothing.  But  elsewhere  —  well,  it  does  define  a 
man,  doesn't  it?" 

"Undoubtedly.  I've  never  gone  into  it  with  him." 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  guess  why." 

"Very  likely.  You  seem  preternaturally  acute  in  these  mat 
ters." 

"  Is  it  because  the  Sears-Roebuck  mail-order  double-bow  knot 
in  polka-dot  pattern  stands  as  a  sign  of  pristine  innocence  ?  " 

In  spite  of  herself  Miss  Van  Arsdale  laughed.  "Something  of 
that  sort." 

lo's  soft  lips  straightened.  "It's  rotten  bad  form.  Why 
shouldn't  he  be  right?  It's  so  easy.  Just  a  hint  — " 

"From  you?" 

"From  either  of  us.  Yes;  from  me,  if  you  like." 

"It's  quite  an  intimate  interest,  isn't  it?" 

"'But  never  can  battle  of  men  compare 
With  merciless  feminine  fray'" — 

quoted  lo  pensively. 

"Kipling  is  a  sophomore  about  women,"  retorted  Miss  Van 
Arsdale.  "  We're  not  going  to  quarrel  over  Errol  Banneker.  The 
odds  are  too  unfair." 

"Unfair?"  queried  lo,  with  a  delicate  lift  of  brow. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  know  that  whatever  you  do  will 
be  within  the  rules  of  the  game.  That's  the  touchstone  of  honor 
of  your  kind." 

"Isn't  it  good  enough?  It  ought  to  be,  for  it's  about  the  only 
one  most  of  us  have."  lo  laughed.  "We're  becoming  very  seri 
ous.  May  I  take  the  pony?" 

"Yes.  Will  you  be  back  for  supper?" 


94  Success 

"Of  course.  Shall  I  bring  the  paragon?" 
"If  you  wish." 

Outside  the  gaunt  box  of  the  station,  lo,  from  the  saddle  sent 
forth  her  resonant,  young  call : 
"Oh,  Ban!"  ;      .       , 

"  'Tis  the  voice  of  the  Butterfly;  hear  her  declare, 
'I've  come  down  to  the  earth;  I  am  tired  of  the  air'" 

chanted  Banneker's  voice  in  cheerful  paraphrase.  "Light  and 
preen  your  wings,  Butterfly." 

Their  tone  was  that  of  comrades  without  a  shade  of  anything 
deeper. 

"Busy?"  asked  lo. 

"Just  now.  Give  me  another  five  minutes." 

"I'll  go  to  the  hammock." 

One  lone  alamo  tree,  an  earnest  of  spring  water  amongst  the 
dry-sand  growth  of  the  cactus,  flaunted  its  bright  verdency  a  few 
rods  back  of  the  station,  and  in  its  shade  Banneker  had  swung  a 
hammock  for  lo.  Hitching  her  pony  and  unfastening  her  hat,  the 
girl  stretched  herself  luxuriously  in  the  folds.  A  slow  wind,  spice- 
laden  with  the  faint,  crisp  fragrancies  of  the  desert,  swung  her  to 
a  sweet  rhythm.  She  closed  her  eyes  happily  . .  .  and  when  she 
opened  them,  Banneker  was  standing  over  her,  smiling. 

"Don't  speak  to  me,"  she  murmured;  "I  want  to  believe  that 
this  will  last  forever." 

Silent  and  acquiescent,  he  seated  himself  in  a  camp-chair  close 
by.  She  stretched  a  hand  to  him,  closing  her  eyes  again. 

"Swing  me,"  she  ordered. 

He  aided  the  wind  to  give  a  wider  sweep  to  the  hammock.  lo 
stirred  restlessly. 

"You've  broken  the  spell,"  she  accused  softly.  "Weave  me 
another  one." 

"What  shall  it  be?"  He  bent  over  the  armful  of  books  which 
he  had  brought  out. 

"You  choose  this  time." 

"I  wonder,"  he  mused,  regarding  her  consideringly. 

"  Ah,  you  may  well  wonder !  I'm  in  a  very  special  mood  to-day." 


Enchantment  95 

"When  aren't  you,  Butterfly?"  he  laughed. 

"  Beware  that  you  don't  spoil  it.  Choose  well,  or  forever  after 
hold  your  peace." 

He  lifted  the  well-worn  and  well-loved  volume  of  poetry.  It 
parted  in  his  hand  to  the  Rossetti  sonnet.  He  began  to  read  at 
the  lines ; 

"When  Work  and  Will  awake  too  late,  to  gaze 
After  tbeir  Ufo  saile^  by,  and  hold  their  breath." 

'  lo  opened  her  eyes  again. 

"Why  did  you  select  that  thing?' 

"Why  did  you  mark  it ?" 

"Did  I  mark  it?" 

"  Certainly-  I'm  not  responsible  for  the  sage-blossom  between 
the  pages." 

"Ah,  the  sage!  That's  for  wisdom,"  she  paraphrased  lightly. 

"Do  you  think  Rossetti  so  wise  a  preceptor?" 

"It  isn't  often  that  he  preaches.  When  he  does,  as  in  that 
sonnet  —  well,  the  inspiration  may  be  a  little  heavy,  but  he  does 
have  something  to  say." 

"  Then  it's  the  more  evident  that  you  marked  it  for  some  spe 
cial  reason." 

"What  supernatural  insight,"  she  mocked.  "Can  you  read 
your  name  between  the  lines?" 

"What  is  it  that  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"You  mean  to  ask  what  it  is  that  Mr.  Rossetti  wants  you  to 
do.  I  didn't  write  the  sonnet,  you  know." 

"You  didn't  fashion  the  arrow,  but  you  aimed  it." 

"Am  I  a  good  marksman?" 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  I'm  wasting  my  time  here." 

"  Surely  not  1"  she  gibed.  "  Forming  a  link  of  transcontinental 
traffic.  Helping  to  put  a  girdle  'round  the  earth  in  eighty  days  — 
or  is  it  forty  now  ?  —  enlightening  the  traveling  public  about  the 
three-twenty-four  train;  dispensing  time-tables  and  other  pre 
cious  mediums  of  education  — " 

"I'm  happy  here,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"Are  you  going  to  be,  always?" 


96  Success 

His  face  darkened  with  doubt.  "Why  shouldn't  I  be?"  he 
argued.  "I've  got  everything  I  need.  Some  day  I  thought  I 
might  write." 

"What  about?"  The  question  came  sharp  and  quick. 

He  looked  vaguely  around  the  horizon. 

"Oh,  no,  Ban!"  she  said.  "Not  this.  You've  got  to  know 
something  besides  cactuses  and  owls  to  write,  these  days. 
You've  got  to  know  men.  And  women,"  she  added,  in  a  curious 
tone,  with  a  suspicion  of  effort,  even  of  jealousy  in  it. 

"I've  never  cared  much  for  people,"  he  said. 

"  It's  an  acquired  taste,  I  suppose  for  some  of  us.  There's 
something  else."  She  came  slowly  to  a  sitting  posture  and  fixed 
her  questioning,  baffling  eyes  on  his.  "  Ban,  don't  you  want  to 
make  a  success  in  lif  e  ?  " 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  answer.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  with 
apparent  irrelevance  to  what  she  had  said.  "Once  I  went  to  a 
revival.  A  reformed  tough  was  running  it.  About  every  three 
minutes  he'd  thrust  out  his  hands  and  grab  at  the  air  and  say, 
'Oh,  brothers;  don't  you  yearn  for  Jesus?'" 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  questioned  lo,  surprised  and 
impatient. 

"Only  that,  somehow,  the  way  you  said  'success  in  life'  made 
me  think  of  him  and  his  'yearn  for  Jesus.'" 

"Errol  Banneker,"  said  lo,  amused  in  spite  of  her  annoyance, 
"  you  are  possessed  of  a  familiar  devil  who  betrays  other  people's 
inner  thoughts  to  you.  Success  is  a  species  of  religion  to  me,  I 
suppose." 

"And  you  are  making  converts,  like  all  true  enthusiasts.  Tell, 
tell  me.  What  kind  of  success?" 

"Oh,  power.  Money.  Position.  Being  somebody." 

"I'm  somebody  here  all  right.  I'm  the  station-agent  of  the 
Atkinson  &  St.  Philip  Railroad  Company." 

"Now  you're  trying  to  provoke  me." 

"No.  But  to  get  success  you've  got  to  want  it,  haven't  you?" 
he  asked  more  earnestly.  "To  want  it  with  all  your  strength." 

"  Of  course.  Every  man  ought  to." 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  he  objected.  "There's  a  kind  of  virtue  in 
staying  put,  isn't  there?" 


Enchantment  97 

She  made  a  little  gesture  of  impatience. 
"I'll  give  you  a  return  for  your  sonnet,"  he  pursued,  and  re 
peated  from  memory : 

"What  else  is  Wisdom?  What  of  man's  endeavor 
Or  God's  high  grace,  so  lovely  and  so  great? 
To  stand  from  fear  set  free,  to  breathe  and  wait; 
To  hold  a  hand  uplifted  over  Hate. 
And  shall  not  Loveliness  be  loved  forever?" 

"I  don't  know  it.  It's  beautiful.  What  is  it?" 

"Gilbert  Murray's  translation  of  'The  Bacchas.'  My  legal 
mentors  had  a  lapse  of  dry-as-dustness  and  sent  it  to  me." 

"'To  stand  from  fear  set  free,  to  breathe  and  wait,'"  mur 
mured  the  girl.  "That  is  what  I've  been  doing  here.  How  good 
it  is!  But  not  for  you,"  she  added,  her  tone  changing  from 
dreamy  to  practical.  "Ban,  I  suspect  there's  too  much  poetry  in 
your  cosmos." 

"Very  probably.  Poetry  isn't  success,  is  it?" 

Her  face  grew  eager.  "It  might  be.  The  very  highest.  But 
you've  got  to  make  yourself  known  and  felt  among  people." 

"Do  you  think  I  could?  And  how  does  one  get  that  kind  of 
desire?"  he  asked  lazily. 

"  How  ?  I've  known  men  to  do  it  for  love ;  and  I've  known  them 
to  do  it  for  hate ;  and  I've  known  them  to  do  it  for  money.  Yes ; 
and  there's  another  cause." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Restlessness." 

"That's  ambition  with  its  nerves  gone  bad,  isn't  it?" 

Again  she  smiled.  "You'll  know  what  it  is  some  day." 

"Is  it  contagious?"  he  asked  solicitously. 

"Don't  be  alarmed.  I  haven't  it.  Not  now.  I'd  love  to  stay 
on  and  on  and  just  'breathe  and  wait,'  if  the  gods  were  good." 

"'Dream  that  the  gods  are  good,'"  he  echoed.  "The  last 
khing  they  ever  think  of  being  according  to  my  reading." 

She  capped  his  line ; 

"We  twain,  once  well  in  sunder, 
What  will  the  mad  gods  do  — '  " 


98  Success 

she  began;  then  broke  off,  jumping  to  her  feet.  "I'm  talking 
sheer  nonsense !  "  she  cried.  "Take  me  for  a  walk  in  the  woods. 
The  desert  glares  to-day." 

"I'll  have  to  be  back  by  twelve,"  he  said.  "Excuse  me  just  a 
moment." 

He  disappeared  into  the  portable  house.  When  he  rejoined  her, 
she  asked : 

"What  did  you  go  in  there  for?  To  get  your  revolver?" 

"Yes." 

"  I've  carried  one  since  the  day  you  told  me  to.  Not  that  I've 
met  a  soul  that  looked  dangerous,  nor  that  I'd  know  how  to 
shoot  or  when,  if  I  did." 

"The  sight  of  it  would  be  taken  as  evidence  that  you  knew  how 
to  use  it,"  he  assured  her. 

For  a  time,  as  they  walked,  she  had  many  questions  to  put 
about  the  tree  and  bird  life  surrounding  them.  In  the  midst  of  it 
he  asked  her : 

"Do  you  ever  get  restless?" 

"I  haven't,  here.  I'm  getting  rested." 

"And  at  home  I  suppose  you're  too  busy." 

"Being  busy  is  no  preventive.  Somebody  has  said  that  St. 
Vitus  is  the  patron  saint  of  New  York  society." 

"It  must  take  almost  all  the  time  those  people  have  to  keep  up 
with  the  theaters  and  with  the  best  in  poetry  and  what's  being 
done  and  thought,  and  the  new  books  and  all  that,"  he  surmised. 

"I  beg  your  pardon ;  what  was  that  about  poetry  and  books?" 

"Girls  like  you  —  society  girls,  I  mean  —  read  everything 
there  is,  don't  they?" 

"Where  do  you  get  that  extraordinary  idea?" 

"Why,  from  knowing  you." 

"My  poor,  innocent  Ban !  If  you  were  to  try  and  talk  books 
and  poetry,  'Shakespeare  and  the  musical  glasses,'  to  the  aver 
age  society  girl,  as  you  call  her,  what  do  you  suppose  would 
happen  ?" 

"Why,  I  suppose  I'd  give  myself  away  as  an  ignoramus." 

"Heaven  save  you  for  a  woolly  lambkin  !The  girl  would  flee, 
shrieking,  and  issue  a  warning  against  you  as  a  highbrow,  a  prig 


Enchantment  99 

and  a  hopeless  bore.  They  don't  read  books,  except  a  few  choco 
late-cream  novels.  They  haven't  the  time." 

"But  you—" 

"Oh,  I'm  a  freak!  I  get  away  with  it  because  I'm  passably 
good-looking  and  know  how  to  dress,  and  do  what  I  please  by 
the  divine  right  of  —  well,  of  just  doing  it.  But,  even  so,  a  lot 
of  the  men  are  rather  afraid  of  me  in  their  hearts.  They  suspect 
the  bluestocking.  Let  'em  suspect !  The  market  is  plenty  good 
enough,"  declared  lo  flippantly. 

"  Then  you  just  took  up  books  as  a  sort  of  freak ;  a  side  issue  ?" 
The  disappointment  in  his  face  was  almost  ludicrous. 

"No."  A  quiet  gravity  altered  her  expression.  "I'll  tell  you 
about  me,  if  you  want  to  hear.  My  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a 
famous  classical  scholar,  who  was  opposed  to  her  marriage  be 
cause  Father  has  always  been  a  man  of  affairs.  From  the  first, 
Mother  brought  me  up  to  love  books  and  music  and  pictures. 
She  died  when  I  was  twelve,  and  poor  Father,  who  worshiped  her, 
wanted  to  carry  out  her  plans  for  me,  though  he  had  no  special 
sympathy  with  them.  To  make  things  worse  for  him,  nobody 
but  Mother  ever  had  any  control  over  me ;  I  was  spoiled  and  self- 
willed  and  precocious,  and  I  thought  the  world  owed  me  a  good 
time.  Dad's  business  judgment  of  human  nature  saved  the  situa 
tion,  he  thoroughly  understood  one  thing  about  me,  that  I'd 
keep  a  bargain  if  I  made  it.  So  we  fixed  up  our  little  contract ;  I 
was  to  go  through  college  and  do  my  best,  and  after  I  graduated, 
I  was  to  have  a  free  hand  and  an  income  of  my  own,  a  nice  one. 
I  did  the  college  trick.  I  did  it  well.  I  was  third  in  my  class,  and 
there  wasn't  a  thing  in  literature  or  languages  that  they  could 
stop  me  from  getting.  At  eighteen  they  turned  me  loose  on  the 
world,  and  here  I  am,  tired  of  it,  but  still  loving  it.  That's  all  of 
me.  Aren't  I  a  good  little  autobiographer.  Every  lady  her  own 
Boswell!  What  are  you  listening  to?" 

"There's  a  horse  coming  along  the  old  trail,"  said  Banneker. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked.  "Some  one  following  us?" 

He  shook  his  head.  A  moment  later  the  figure  of  a  mounted 
man  loomed  through  the  brush.  He  was  young,  strong-built,  and 
not  ill-looking.  "Howdy,  Ban,"  he  said. 


100  Success 

Banneker  returned  the  greeting. 

"Whee-ew!"  shrilled  the  other,  wiping  his  brow.  "This  sure 
does  fetch  the  licker  outen  a  man's  hide.  Hell  of  a  wet  night  at 
the  Sick  Coyote  last  night.  Why  wasn't  you  over?" 

"Busy,"  replied  Banneker. 

Something  in  his  tone  made  the  other  raise  himself  from  his 
weary  droop.  He  sighted  lo. 

"Howdy,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "Didn't  see  there  was  ladies 
present." 

"Good-morning,"  said  lo. 

"  Visitin'  hereabouts?"  inquired  the  man,  eyeing  her  curiously. 

"Yes." 

"Where,  if  I  might  be  bold  to  ask?" 

"If  you've  got  any  questions  to  ask,  ask  them  of  me,  Fred," 
directed  Banneker. 

While  there  was  nothing  truculent  in  his  manner,  it  left  no 
doubt  as  to  his  readiness  and  determination. 

Fred  looked  both  sullen  and  crestfallen. 

"It  ain't  nothin',"  he  said.  "Only,  inquiries  was  bein'  made 
by  a  gent  from  a  Angelica  City  noospaper  last  week." 

"Somebody  else  meant,"  asserted  Banneker.  "You  keep  that 
in  mind,  will  you  ?  And  it  isn't  necessary  that  you  should  men 
tion  this  lady  at  all.  Savvy,  Fred?" 

The  other  grunted,  touched  his  sombrero  to  lo  and  rode  on. 

"Has  a  reporter  been  here  inquiring  after  me?"  asked  lo. 

"  Not  after  you.  It  was  some  one  else." 

"If  the  newspapers  tracked  me  here,  I'd  have  to  leave  at 
once." 

"They  won't.  At  least,  it  isn't  likely." 

"You'd  get  me  out  some  way,  wouldn't  you,  Ban?"  she  said 
trustfully. 

"Yes." 

"  Ban ;  that  Fred  person  seemed  afraid  of  you." 

"He's  got  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  unless  he  talks  too  much." 

"But  you  had  him  *  bluffed.'  I'm  sure  you  had.  Ban,  did  you 
ever  kill  a  man?" 

"No." 


Enchantment  101 


"Or  shoot  one?" 

"Not  even  that." 

"  Yet,  I  believe,  from  the  way  he  looked  at  you,  that  you've 
got  a  reputation  as  a  'bad  man  '  ?" 

"  So  I  have.  But  it's  no  fault  of  mine." 

"How  did  you  get  it?" 

"You'll  laugh  if  I  tell  you.  They  say  I've  got  a  'killer's'  eye." 

The  girl  examined  his  face  with  grave  consideration.  "You've 
got  nice  eyes,"  was  her  verdict.  "That  deep  brown  is  almost 
wasted  on  a  man ;  some  girl  ought  to  have  it.  I  used  to  hear  a  — 
a  person,  who  made  a  deep  impression  on  me  at  the  time,  insist 
that  there  was  always  a  flaw  in  the  character  of  a  person  with 
large,  soft  brown  eyes." 

"Isn't  there  a  flaw  in  every  character?" 

"Human  nature  being  imperfect,  there  must  be.  What  is 
yours;  suppressed  murderousness ? " 

"Not  at  all.  My  reputation  is  unearned,  though  useful.  Just 
before  I  came  here,  a  young  chap  showed  up  from  nowhere  and 
loafed  around  Manzanita.  He  was  a  pretty  kind  of  lad,  and  one 
night  in  the  Sick  Coyote  some  of  the  old-timers  tried  to  put 
something  over  on  him.  When  the  smoke  cleared  away,  there 
was  one  dead  and  six  others  shot  up,  and  Little  Brownie  was  out 
on  the  desert,  riding  for  the  next  place,  awrfully  sore  over  a  hole 
in  his  new  sombrero.  He  was  a  two-gun  man  from  down  near 
the  border.  Well,  when  I  arrived  in  town,  I  couldn't  understand 
why  every  one  looked  so  queerly  at  my  eyes,  until  Mindle,  the 
mail-driver,  told  me  they  were  exactly  like  the  hair-trigger  boy's. 
Cheap  and  easy  way  to  get  a  reputation,  isn't  it?" 

"But  you  must  have  something  back  of  it,"  insisted  the  girl. 
"Are  you  a  good  shot?" 

"  Nothing  fancy ;  there  are  twenty  better  in  town." 

"Yet  you  pin  some  faith  to  your  'gun,'"  she  pointed  out. 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  to  right  and  left.  lo  jumped 
forward  with  a  startled  cry.  So  swift  and  secret  had  been  his 
motion  that  she  hardly  saw  the  weapon  before  —  PLACK  —  PLACK 
—  PLACK  —  the  three  shots  had  sounded.  The  smoke  drifted 
around  him  in  a  little  circle,  for  the  first  two  shots  had  been  over 


102  .  Success 


his  shoulder  and  the  third  as  he  whirled.  Walking  back,  he  care 
fully  examined  the  trunks  of  three  trees. 

"I'd  have  only  barked  that  fellow,  if  he'd  been  a  man,"  he 
observed,  shaking  his  head  at  the  second  mark. 

"You  frightened  me,"  complained  lo. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  thought  you  wanted  to  see  a  little  gun-play. 
Out  here  it  isn't  how  straight  you  can  shoot  at  a  bull's-eye,  but 
how  quick  you  can  plant  your  bullets,  and  usually  in  a  mark  that 
isn't  obliging  enough  to  be  dead  in  line.  So  I  practice  occasion 
ally,  just  in  case." 

"Very  interesting.  But  I've  got  luncheon  to  cook,"  said  lo. 

They  returned  through  the  desert.  As  he  opened  the  door  of 
the  shack  for  her,  Banneker,  reverting  to  her  autobiographical 
sketch,  remarked  thoughtfully  and  without  preliminary : 

"  I  might  have  known  there  couldn't  be  any  one  else  like  you." 


CHAPTER  XI 

ALTHOUGH  the  vehicle  of  his  professional  activities  had  for  some 
years  been  a  small  and  stertorous  automobile  locally  known  as 
"  Puffy  Pete,"  Mr.  James  Mindle  always  referred  to  his  process 
of  postal  transfer  from  the  station  to  the  town  as  "teamin'  over 
the  mail."  He  was  a  frail,  grinny  man  from  the  prairie  country, 
much  given  to  romantic  imaginings  and  an  inordinate  admiration 
for  Banneker. 

Having  watched  from  the  seat  of  his  chariot  the  brief  but 
ceremonial  entry  of  Number  Three,  which,  on  regular  schedule, 
roared  through  Manzanita  at  top  speed,  he  descended,  captured 
the  mail-bag  and,  as  the  transcontinental  pulled  out,  accosted 
the  station-agent. 

"What'd  she  stop  for,  Ban?" 

"  Special  orders." 

"Didn't  say  nothin'  about  havin'  a  ravin'  may-ni-ac  aboard, 
did  then?" 

"No." 

"Ban,  was  you  ever  in  the  State  of  Ohio?" 

"A  long  time  ago." 

"Are  Ohio  folks  liable  to  be  loony?" 

"Not  more  than  others,  I  reckon,  Jimmy." 

"Pretty  enthoosiastic  about  themselves,  though,  ain't  theh?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know.  It's  a  nice  country  there,  Jimmy." 

"There  was  one  on  Number  Three  sure  thought  so.  Hadn't 
scarcely  come  to  a  stop  when  off  he  jumps  and  waves  his  fins 
and  gives  three  cheers  for  it." 

"For  what?" 

"Ohio.  I'm  tellin'  you.  He  ramps  across  the  track  yippin' 
*  Ohio !  Ohio  !  Ohio  ! '  whoopity-yoop.  He  come  right  at  me  and 
I  says,  'Watch  yehself,  Buddy.  You'll  git  left.'" 

"What  did  he  say  to  that?"  asked  Banneker  indulgently. 

"Never  looked  at  me  no  more  than  a  doodle-bug.  Just  yelled 
'Ohio!'  again.  So  I  come  back  at  him  with  'Missourah.'  He 


104  Success 

grabs  me  by  the  shoulder  and  points  to  your  shack.  '  Who  owns 
that  little  shed  ? '  says  he,  very  excited.  '  My  friend,  Mr.  Banne- 
ker,'  says  I,  polite  as  always  to  strangers.  'But  I  own  that 
shoulder  you're  leanin'  on,  and  I'm  about  to  take  it  away  with 
me  when  I  go,'  I  says.  He  leaned  off  and  says,  'Where  did  that 
young  lady  come  from  that  was  standin'  in  the  doorway  a  minute 
ago?'  'Young  lady,'  Ban.  Do  you  get  that?  So  I  says,  'You're 
lucky,  Bud.  When  I  get  'em,  it's  usually  snakes  and  bugs  and 
such-like  rep-tyles.  Besides,'  I  says,  'your  train  is  about  to  forgit 
that  you  got  off  it,'  I  says.  With  that  he  gives  another  screech 
that  don't  even  mean  as  much  as  Ohio  and  tails  onto  the  back 
platform  just  in  time." 

Said  Ban,  after  frowning  consideration : 

"You  didn't  see  any  lady  around  the  shack,  did  you,  Jimmy  ?" 

"Not  on  your  life,"  replied  the  little  man  indignantly.  "I 
ain't  had  anything  like  that  since  I  took  the  mail-teamin' 
contract." 

"  How  good  time  do  you  think  Puffy  Pete  could  make  across- 
desert  in  case  I  should  want  it  ?"  inquired  the  agent  after  a  pause. 

The  mail-man  contemplated  his  "team,"  bubbling  and  pant 
ing  a  vaporous  breath  over  the  platform.  "Pete  ain't  none  too 
fond  of  sand,"  he  confessed.  "  But  if  you  want  to  git  anywhere, 
him  and  me'll  git  you  there.  You  know  that,  Ban." 

Banneker  nodded  comradely  and  the  post  chugged  away. 

Inside  the  shack  lo  had  set  out  the  luncheon-things.  To 
Banneker's  eyes  she  appeared  quite  unruffled,  despite  the 
encounter  which  he  had  surmised  from  Jimmy's  sketch. 

"Get  me  some  flowers  kr  the  table,  Ban,"  she  directed.  "I 
want  it  to  look  festive." 

"Why,  in  particular?" 

"Because  I'm  afraid  we  won't  have  many  more  luncheons 
together." 

He  made  no  comment,  but  went  out  and  returned  with  the 
flowers.  Meantime  lo  had  made  up  her  mind. 

"I've  had  an  unpleasant  surprise,  Ban." 

"I  was  afraid  so." 

She  glanced  up  quickly.  "  Did  you  see  him  ?" 


Enchantment  105 

"No.  Mindle,  the  mail  transfer  man,  did." 

"Oh !  Well,  that  was  Aleck  Babson.  'Babbling  Babson,"  he's 
called  at  the  clubs.  He's  the  most  inveterate  gossip  in  New 
York." 

"It's  a  long  way  from  New  York,"  pointed  out  Banneker. 

"Yes ;  but  he  has  a  long  tongue.  Besides,  he'll  see  the  Wester- 
leys  and  my  other  friends  in  Paradiso,  and  babble  to  them." 

"Suppose  he  does?" 

"I  won't  have  people  chasing  here  after  me  or  pestering  me 
with  letters,"  she  said  passionately.  "Yet  I  don't  want  to  go 
away.  I  want  to  get  more  rested,  Ban,  and  forget  a  lot  of  things." 

He  nodded.  Comfort  and  comprehension  were  in  his  silence. 

"You  can  be  as  companionable  as  a  dog,"  said  lo  softly. 
"  Where  did  you  get  your  tact,  I  wonder  ?  Well,  I  shan't  go  till 
I  must. . .  .Lemonade,  Ban !  I  brought  over  the  lemons  myself." 

They  lunched  a  little  soberly  and  thoughtfully. 

"And  I  wanted  it  to  be  festive  to-day,"  said  lo  wistfully, 
speaking  out  her  thoughts  as  usual.  "Ban,  does  Miss  Camilla 
smoke?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Why?" 

"Because  if  she  does,  you'll  think  it  all  right.  And  I  want  a 
cigarette  now." 

"If  you  do,  I'll  know  it's  all  right,  Butterfly,"  returned  her 
companion  fetching  a  box  from  a  shelf. 

"Hold  the  thought!"  cried  lo  gayly.  "There's  a  creed  for 
you!  'Whatever  is,  is  right,'  provided  that  it's  lo  who  does  it. 
Always  judge  me  by  that  standard,  Ban,  won't  you? . .  .Where  in 
the  name  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  ghost  did  you  get  these  ciga 
rettes?  'Mellorosa' . . .  Ban,  is  this  a  Sears-Roebuck  stock?" 

"No.  It  came  from  town.  Don't  you  like  it?" 

'It's  quite  curious  and  interesting.  Never  mind,  my  dear; 
I  won't  tease  you." 

For  all  that  lo's  "my  dear"  was  the  most  casual  utterance 
imaginable,  it  brought  a  quick  flush  to  Banneker's  face.  Chatter 
ing  carelessly,  she  washed  up  the  few  dishes,  put  them  away  in 
the  brackets,  and  then,  smoking  another  of  the  despised  Mello- 
rosas,  wandered  to  the  book-shelves. 


106  Success 

"Read  me  something  out  of  your  favorite  book,  Ban No; 

this  one." 

She  handed  him  the  thick  mail-order  catalogue.  With  a 
gravity  equal  to  her  own  he  took  it 

"  What  will  you  have?" 

"Let  the  spirit  of  Sears-Roebuck  decide.  Open  at  random  and 
expound." 

He  thrust  a  finger  between  the  leaves  and  began : 

'Our  Special,  Fortified  Black  Fiber  Trunk  for  Hard  Travel. 
Made  of  Three-Ply  Yen  — " 

"Oh,  to  have  my  trunks  again!"  sighed  the  girl.  "Turn  to 
something  else.  I  don't  like  that.  It  reminds  me  of  travel." 

Obedient,  Banneker  made  another  essay : 

"Clay  County  Clay  Target  Traps.  Easily  Adjusted  to  the 
Elevation  — " 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  broke  in  again.  "That  reminds  me  that  Dad 
wrote  me  to  look  up  his  pet  shot-gun  before  his  return.  I  don't 
like  that  either.  Try  again." 

This  time  the  explorer  plunged  deep  into  the  volume. 

"How  to  Make  Home  Home-like.  An  Invaluable  Counselor 
for  the  Woman  of  the  Household  — ' 

lo  snatched  the  book  from  the  reader's  hand  and  tossed  it 
into  a  corner.  "Sears-Roebuck  are  very  tactless,"  she  declared. 
"Everything  they  have  to  offer  reminds  one  of  home.  What  do 
you  think  of  home,  Ban?  Home,  as  an  abstract  proposition. 
Home  as  the  what-d'you-call-'em  of  the  nation ;  the  palladium — 
no,  the  bulwark?  Home  as  viewed  by  the  homing  pigeon? 
Home,  Sweet  Home,  as  sung  by  —  Would  you  answer,  Ban,  if  I 
stopped  gibbering  and  gave  you  the  chance?" 

"I've  never  had  much  opportunity  to  judge  about  home,  you 
know." 

She  darted  out  a  quick  little  hand  and  touched  his  sleeve. 
The  raillery  had  faded  from  her  face.  "So  you  haven't.  Not 
very  tactful  of  me,  was  it !  Will  you  throw  me  into  the  corner 
with  Mr.  Sears  and  Mr.  Roebuck,  Ban?  I'm  sorry." 

"You  needn't  be.  One  gets  used  to  being  an  air-plant  without 
roots." 


Enchantment  107 

"  Yet  you  wouldn't  have  fitted  out  this  shack,"  she  pointed  out 
shrewdly,  "  unless  you  had  the  instincts  of  home." 

"  That's  true  enough.  Fortunately  it's  the  kind  of  home  I  can 
take  along  when  they  transfer  me." 

lo  went  to  the  door  and  looked  afar  on  the  radiant  splendor  of 
the  desert,  and,  nearer,  into  the  cool  peace  of  the  forest. 

"But  you  can't  take  all  this,"  she  reminded  him. 

"No.  I  can't  take  this." 

" Shall  you  miss  it?" 

A  shadow  fell  upon  his  face.  "I'd  miss  something  —  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  —  that  no  other  place  has  ever  given  me.  Why 
do  you  talk  as  if  I  were  going  away  from  it  ?  I'm  not." 

"Oh,  yes;  you  are,"  she  laughed  softly.  "It  is  so  written. 
I'm  a  seeress."  She  turned  from  the  door  and  threw  herself  into 
a  chair. 

"What  will  take  me?" 

"  Something  inside  you.  Something  unawakened.  '  Something 
lost  beyond  the  ranges.'  You'll  know,  and  you'll  obey  it." 

"  Shall  I  ever  come  back,  O  seeress  ?" 

At  the  question  her  eyes  grew  dreamy  and  distant.  Her  voice 
when  she  spoke  sank  to  a  low-pitched  monotone. 

"Yes,  you'll  come  back.  Sometime.. . .  So  shall  I. .  .not  for 
years. .  .but — "  She  jumped  to  her  feet.  "What  kind  of  rub 
bish  am  I  talking?"  she  cried  with  forced  merriment.  "Is  your 
tobacco  drugged  with  hasheesh,  Ban?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "It's  the  pull  of  the  desert,"  he  murmured. 
"It's  caught  you  sooner  than  most.  You're  more  responsive, 
I  suppose ;  more  sens  —  Why,  Butterfly !  You're  shaking." 

"A  Scotchman  would  say  that  I  was  'fey/  Ban,  do  you  think 
it  means  that  I'm  coming  back  here  to  die?"  She  laughed  again. 
"If  I  were  fated  to  die  here,  I  expect  that  I  missed  my  good 
chance  in  the  smash-up.  Fortunately  I'm  not  superstitious." 

"  There  might  be  worse  places,"  said  he  slowly.  "  It  is  the  place 
that  would  call  me  back  if  ever  I  got  down  and  out."  He  pointed 
through  the  window  to  the  distant,  glowing  purity  of  the  moun 
tain  peak.  "One  could  tell  one's  troubles  to  that  tranquil  old  god." 

"Would  he  listen  to  mine,  I  wonder?" 


108  Success 

"Try  him  before  you  go.  You  can  leave  them  all  here  and  I'll 
watch  over  them  for  you  to  see  that  they  don't  get  loose  and 
bother  you." 

"  Absolution !  If  it  were  only  as  easy  as  that !  This  is  a  haunted 

place Why  should  I  be  here  at  all  ?  Why  didn't  I  go  when  I 

should?  Why  a  thousand  things?" 

"Chance." 

"Is  there  any  such  thing?  Why  can't  I  sleep  at  night  yet,  as  I 
ought?  Why  do  I  still  feel  hunted?  What's  happening  to  me, 
Ban?  What's  getting  ready  to  happen?" 

"Nothing.  That's  nerves." 

"  Yes ;  I'll  try  not  to  think  of  it.  But  at  night  —  Ban,  suppose 
I  should  come  over  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  I  can't  sleep, 
and  call  outside  your  window?" 

"I'd  come  down,  of  course.  But  you'd  have  to  be  careful 
about  rattlers,"  answered  the  practical  Ban. 

"Your  friend,  Camilla,  would  intercept  me,  anyway.  I  don't 
think  she  sleeps  too  well,  herself.  Do  you  know  what  she's  doing 
out  here?" 

"  She  came  for  her  health." 

"That  isn't  what  I  asked  you,  my  dear.  Do  you  know  what 
she's  doing?" 

"No.  She  never  told  me." 

"Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"No." 

"It's  interesting.  Aren't  you  curious?" 

"  If  she  wanted  me  to  know,  she'd  tell  me." 

"Indubitably  correct,  and  quite  praiseworthy,"  mocked  the 
girl.  "Never  mind;  you  know  how  to  be  staunch  to  your 
friends." 

"  In  this  country  a  man  who  doesn't  is  reckoned  a  yellow  dog." 

"  He  is  in  any  decent  country.  So  take  that  with  you  when  you 

go." 

"I'm  not  going,"  he  asserted  with  an  obstinate  set  to  his  jaw. 
"Wait  and  see,"  she  taunted.  "So  you  won't  let  me  send  you 
books?"  she  questioned  after  a  pause. 
"No." 
"No,  I  thank  you,"  she  prompted. 


Enchantment  109 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  he  amended.  "I'm  an  uncouth  sort  of 
person,  but  I  meant  the  'thank  you.'" 

"Of  course  you  did.  And  uncouthness  is  the  last  thing  in  the 

world  you  could  be  accused  of.  That's  the  wonder  of  it No ; 

I  don't  suppose  it  really  is.  It's  birth." 

"If  it's  anything,  it's  training.  My  father  was  a  stickler  for 
forms,  in  spite  of  being  a  sort  of  hobo." 

"Well,  forms  make  the  game,  very  largely.  You  won't  find 
them  essentially  different  when  you  go  out  into  the  —  I  forgot 
again.  That  kind  of  prophecy  annoys  you,  doesn't  it  ?  There  is 
one  book  I'm  going  to  send  you,  though,  which  you  can't  refuse. 
Nobody  can  refuse  it.  It  isn't  done." 

"What  is  that?" 

Her  answer  surprised  him.  "The  Bible." 

"  Are  you  religious  ?  Of  course,  a  butterfly  should  be,  shouldn't 
she  ?  should  believe  in  the  release  of  the  soul  from  its  chrysalis  — 
the  butterfly's  immortality.  Yet  I  wouldn't  have  suspected  you 
of  a  leaning  in  that  direction." 

"Oh,  religion !"  Her  tone  set  aside  the  subject  as  insusceptible 
of  sufficient  or  satisfactory  answer.  "I  go  through  the  forms," 
she  added,  a  little  disdainfully.  "As  to  what  I  believe  and  do  — 
which  is  what  one's  own  religion  is  —  why,  I  assume  that  if  the 
game  is  worth  playing  at  all,  there  must  be  a  Judge  and  Maker 
of  the  Rules.  As  far  as  I  understand  them,  I  follow  them." 

"You  have  a  sort  of  religious  feeling  for  success,  though, 
haven't  you?"  he  reminded  her  slyly. 

"Not  at  all.  Just  human,  common  sense." 

"But  your  creed  as  you've  just  given  it,  the  rules  of  the  game 
and  that ;  that's  precisely  the  Bible  formula,  I  believe." 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  caught  him  up.  "You  haven't  a 
Bible  in  the  place,  so  far  as  I've  noticed." 

"No;  I  haven't." 

"You  should  have." 

"Probably.  But  I  can't,  somehow,  adjust  myself  to  that 
advice  as  coming  from  you." 

"Because  you  don't  understand  what  I'm  getting  at.  It  isn't 
religious  advice." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 


ilO  Success 

"Literary,  purely.  You're  going  to  write,  some  day.  Oh,  don't 
look  doubtful !  That's  foreordained.  It  doesn't  take  a  seeress  to 
prophesy  that.  And  the  Bible  is  the  one  book  that  a  writer  ought 
to  read  every  day.  Isaiah,  Psalms,  Proverbs.  Pretty  much  all 
the  Old  Testament,  and  a  lot  of  the  New.  It  has  grown  into  our 
intellectual  life  until  its  phrases  and  catchwords  are  full  of  over 
tones  and  sub-meanings.  You've  got  to  have  it  in  your  business ; 
your  coming  business,  I  mean.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about, 
Mr.  Errol  Banneker  —  moi  qui  parle.  They  offered  me  an 
instructorship  in  Literature  when  I  graduated.  I  even  threatened 
to  take  it,  just  for  a  joke  on  Dad.  Now,  will  you  be  good  and 
accept  my  fully  explained  and  diagrammed  Bible  without  fearing 
that  I  have  designs  on  your  soul?" 

"Yes." 

"And  will  you  please  go  back  to  your  work  at  once,  and  by 
and  by  take  me  home  and  stay  to  supper?  Miss  Van  Arsdale 
told  me  to  ask  you." 

"  All  right.  I'll  be  glad  to.  What  will  you  do  between  now  and 
four  o'clock?" 

"Prowl  in  your  library  and  unearth  more  of  your  secrets." 

"You're  welcome  if  you  can  find  any.  I  don't  deal  in  'em." 

When  Banneker,  released  from  his  duties  until  evening  train 
time,  rejoined  her,  and  they  were  riding  along  the  forest  trail, 
he  said : 

"You've  started  me  to  theorizing  about  myself." 

"Do  it  aloud,"  she  invited. 

"Well ;  all  my  boyhood  I  led  a  wandering  life,  as  you  know. 
We  were  never  anywhere  as  much  as  a  month  at  a  time.  In  a 
way,  I  liked  the  change  and  adventure.  In  another  way,  I  got 
dead  sick  of  it.  Don't  you  suppose  that  my  readiness  to  settle 
down  and  vegetate  is  the  reaction  from  that?" 

"It  sounds  reasonable  enough.  You  might  put  it  more  simply 
by  saying  that  you  were  tired.  But  by  now  you  ought  to  be 
rested." 

"Therefore  I  ought  to  be  stirring  myself  so  as  to  get  tired 
again?" 

"If  you  don't  stir,  you'll  rust." 


Enchantment  111 

"Rust  is  a  painless  death  for  useless  mechanism." 

She  shot  an  impatient  side-glance  at  him.  "Either  you're  a 
hundred  years  old,"  she  said,  "or  that's  sheer  pose." 

"Perhaps  it  is  a  sort  of  pose.  If  so,  it's  a  self-protective 
one." 

"Suppose  I  asked  you  to  come  to  New  York?" 

Intrepid  though  she  was,  her  soul  quaked  a  little  at  her  own 
words,  foreseeing  those  mail-order-cut  clothes  and  the  resolute 
butterflyness  of  the  tie  greeting  her  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

"What  to  do?" 

"Sell  tickets  at  the  Grand  Central  Station,  of  course!"  she 
shot  back  at  him.  "Ban,  you  are  aggravating!  'What  to  do?' 
Father  would  find  you  some  sort  of  place  while  you  were  fitting 
in." 

'  No.  I  wouldn't  take  a  job  from  you  any  more  than  I'd  take 
anything  else." 

"You  carry  principles  to  the  length  of  absurdity.  Come  and 
get  your  own  job,  then.  You're  not  timid,  are  you?" 

"Not  particularly.  I'm  just  contented." 

At  that  provocation  her  femininity  flared.  "Ban,"  she  cried 
with  exasperation  and  appeal  enchantingly  mingled,  "aren't  you 
going  to  miss  me  at  all  when  I  go?" 

"I've  been  trying  not  to  think  of  that,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Well,  think  of  it,"  she  breathed.  "No!"  she  contradicted 
herself  passionately.  "Don't  think  of  it.  I  shouldn't  have  said 

that I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me  to-day,  Ban.  ( 

Perhaps  I  am  fey."  She  smiled  to  him  slantwise. 

"It's  the  air,"  he  answered  judicially.  "There's  another  storm 
brewing  somewhere  or  I'm  no  guesser.  More  trouble  for  the 
schedule." 

"That's  right!"  she  cried  eagerly.  "Be  the  Atkinson  &  St. 
Philip  station-agent  again.  Let's  talk  about  trains.  It's  —  it's 
so  reliable." 

"Far  from  it  on  this  line,"  he  answered,  adopting  her  light 
tone.  "Particularly  if  we  have  more  rain.  You  may  become  a 
permanent  resident  yet." 

Some  rods  short  of  the^Van  Arsdale  cabin  the  trail  took  a  sharp 


112  Success 

turn  amidst  the  brush.  Halfway  on  the  curve  lo  caught  at 
Banneker's  near  rein. 

"Hark !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  notes  of  a  piano  sounded  faintly  clear  in  the  stillness.  As 
the  harmonies  dissolved  and  merged,  a  voice  rose  above  them, 
resonant  and  glorious,  rose  and  sank  and  pleaded  and  laughed 
and  loved,  while  the  two  young  listeners  leaned  unconsciously 
toward  each  other  in  their  saddles.  Silence  fell  again.  The  very 
forest  life  itself  seemed  hushed  in  a  listening  trance. 

"Heavens  !"  whispered  Banneker.   "Who  is  it?" 

"Camilla  Van  Arsdale,  of  course.  Didn't  you  know?" 

"  I  knew  she  was  musical.  I  didn't  know  she  had  a  voice  like 
that." 

"Ten  years  ago  New  York  was  wild  over  it." 

"But  why—" 

"Hush!  She's  beginning  again." 

Once  more  the  sweep  of  the  chords  was  followed  by  the  superb 
voice  while  the  two  wayfarers  and  all  the  world  around  them 
waited,  breathless  and  enchained.  At  the  end,  Banneker  said 
dreamily : 

"I've  never  heard  anything  like  that  before.  It  says  every 
thing  that  can't  be  said  in  words  alone,  doesn't  it  ?  It  makes  me 
think  of  something  —  What  is  it?"  He  groped  for  a  moment, 
then  repeated : 

"'A  passionate  ballad,  gallant  and  gay, 
Singing  afar  in  the  springtime  of  life, 
Singing  of  youth  and  of  love 
And  of  honor  that  cannot  die.' " 

*  lo  drew  a  deep,  tremulous  breath.  "Yes ;  it's  like  that.  What 
a  voice !  And  what  an  art  to  be  buried  out  here !  It's  one  of  her 
own  songs,  I  think.  Probably  an  unpublished  one." 

"  Her  own  ?  Does  she  write  music  ? ' ' 

"She  is  Royce  Melvin,  the  composer.  Does  that  mean  any 
thing  to  you?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Some  day  it  will.  They  say  that  he  —  every  one  thinks  it's  a 
he  —  will  take  Massenet's  place  as  a  lyrical  composer.  I  found 
her  out  by  accidentally  coming  on  the  manuscript  of  a  Melvin 


Enchantment  113 

song  that  I  knew.  That's  her  secret  that  I  spoke  of.  Do  you 
mind  my  having  told  you?" 

"Why,  no.  It'll  never  go  any  further.  I  wonder  why  she 
never  told  me.  And  why  she  keeps  so  shut  off  from  the  world 
here." 

"Ah;  that's  another  secret,  and  one  that  I  shan't  tell  you," 
returned  lo  gravely.  "There's  the  piano  again." 

A  few  indeterminate  chords  came  to  their  ears.  There  fol 
lowed  a  jangling  disharmony.  They  waited,  but  there  was 
nothing  more.  They  rode  on. 

At  the  lodge  Banneker  took  the  horses  around  while  lo  went 
in.  Immediately  her  voice,  with  a  note  of  alarm  in  it,  summoned 
him.  He  found  her  bending  over  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  who  lay 
across  the  divan  in  the  living-room  with  eyes  closed,  breathing 
jerkily.  Her  lips  were  blue  and  her  hands  looked  shockingly 
lifeless. 

"  Carry  her  into  her  room,"  directed  lo. 

Banneker  picked  up  the  tall,  strong-built  form  without  effort 
and  deposited  it  on  the  bed  in  the  inner  room. 

"Open  all  the  windows,"  commanded  the  girl.  " See  if  you  can 
find  me  some  ammonia  or  camphor.  Quick !  She  looks  as  if  she 
were  dying." 

One  after  another  Banneker  tried  the  bottles  on  the  dresser. 
"Here  it  is.  Ammonia,"  he  said. 

In  his  eagerness  he  knocked  a  silver-mounted  photograph  to 
the  floor.  He  thrust  the  drug  into  the  girl's  hand  and  watched 
her  helplessly  as  she  worked  over  the  limp  figure  on  the  bed. 
Mechanically  he  picked  up  the  fallen  picture  to  replace  it.  There 
looked  out  at  him  the  face  of  a  man  of  early  middle  age,  a  face  of 
manifest  intellectual  power,  high-boned,  long-lined,  and  of  the 
austere,  almost  ascetic  beauty  which  the  Florentine  coins  have 
preserved  for  us  in  clear  fidelity.  Across  the  bottom  was  written 
in  a  peculiarly  rhythmic  script,  the  legend : 

"Toujours  a  toi.  W." 

"She's  coming  back,"   said  lo's  voice.  "No.  Don't  come 
nearer.  You'll  shut  off  the  air.  Find  me  a  fan." 
He  ran  to  the  outer  room  and  came  back  with  a  palm-leaf. 


114  Success 

"She  wants  something, "  said  lo  in  an  agonized  half- voice. 
"She  wants  it  so  badly.  What  is  it?  Help  me,  Ban !  She  can't 
speak.  Look  at  her  eyes  —  so  imploring.  Is  it  medicine?... 
No!  Ban,  can't  you  help?" 

Banneker  took  the  silver-framed  portrait  and  placed  it  in  the 
flaccid  hand.  The  fingers  closed  over  it.  The  filmiest  wraith  of  a 
smile  played  about  the  blue  lips. 

An  hour  later,  lo  came  out  to  Banneker  waiting  fearfully  in 
the  big  room. 

"  She  won't  have  a  doctor.  I've  given  her  the  strychnia  and 
she  insists  she'll  be  all  right." 

"Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  go  for  the  doctor,  anyway?" 

"  She  wouldn't  see  him.  She's  very  strong-willed That's  a 

wonderful  woman,  Ban."  lo's  voice  shook  a  little. 

"Yes." 

"How  did  you  know  about  the  picture?" 

"  I  saw  it  on  the  dresser.  And  when  I  saw  her  eyes,  I  guessed." 

"  Yes ;  there's  only  one  thing  a  woman  wants  like  that,  when 
she's  dying.  You're  rather  a  wonderful  person,  yourself,  to  have 
known.  That's  her  other  secret,  Ban.  The  one  I  said  I  couldn't 
tell  you." 

"I've  forgotten  it,"  replied  Banneker  gravely. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ATTENDANCE  upon  the  sick-room  occupied  lo's  time  for  several 
days  thereafter.  Morning  and  afternoon  Banneker  rode  over 
from  the  station  to  make  anxious  inquiry.  The  self-appointed 
nurse  reported  progress  as  rapid  as  could  be  expected,  but  was 
constantly  kept  on  the  alert  because  of  the  patient's  rebellion 
against  enforced  idleness.  Seizures  of  the  same  sort  she  had 
suffered  before,  it  appeared,  but  none  hitherto  so  severe.  Nothing 
could  be  done,  she  told  lo,  beyond  the  administration  of  the 
medicine,  for  which  she  had  full  directions.  One  day  an  attack 
would  finish  it  all;  meantime,  in  spite  of  her  power  of  self- 
repression,  she  chafed  at  the  monotony  of  her  imprisonment. 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  the  day  after  the  collapse,  while  lo 
was  heating  water  at  the  fireplace,  she  heard  a  drawer  open  in 
the  sick-room  and  hurried  back  to  find  Miss  Van  Arsdale  hang 
ing  to  the  dresser,  her  face  gray-splotched  and  her  fingers  con 
vulsively  crushing  a  letter  which  she  had  taken  from  under  lock. 
Alarmed  and  angry,  the  amateur  nurse  got  her  back  to  bed  only 
half  conscious,  but  still  cherishing  her  trove.  When,  an  hour 
later,  she  dared  leave  her  charge,  she  heard  the  rustle  of 
smoothed-out  paper  and  remained  outside  long  enough  to  allow 
for  the  reading.  On  her  return  there  was  no  sign  of  the  letter. 
Miss  Van  Arsdale,  a  faint  and  hopeful  color  in  her  cheeks,  was 
asleep. 

For  Banneker  these  were  days  of  trial  and  tribulation.  Added 
to  the  anxiety  that  he  felt  for  his  best  friend  was  the  uncertainty 
las  to  what  he  ought  to  do  about  the  developments  affecting  her 
•guest.  For  he  had  heard  once  more  from  Gardner. 

"It's  on  the  cards,"  wrote  the  reporter,  "that  I  may  be  up  to 
see  you  again.  I'm  still  working,  on  and  off,  on  the  tip  that  took 
me  on  that  wild-goose  chase.  If  I  come  again  I  won't  quit  with 
out  some  of  the  wild  goose's  tail  feathers,  at  least.  There's  a 
new  tip  locally;  it  leaked  out  from  Paradiso.  ["The  Babbling 
Babson,"  interjected  the  reader  mentally.]  It  looks  as  though 


116  Success 

the  bird  were  still  out  your  way.  Though  how  she  could  be,  and 
you  not  know  it,  gets  me.  It's  even  a  bigger  game  than  Stella 
Wrightington,  if  my  information  is  O.K.  Have  you  heard  or 
seen  anything  lately  of  a  Beautiful  Stranger  or  anything  like 
that  around  Manzanita  ? . . .  I  enclose  clipping  of  your  story. 
What  do  you  think  of  yourself  in  print?" 

Banneker  thought  quite  highly  of  himself  in  print  as  he  read 
the  article,  which  he  immediately  did.  The  other  matter  could 
wait ;  not  that  it  was  less  important ;  quite  the  contrary ;  but  he 
proposed  to  mull  it  over  carefully  and  with  a  quiet  mind,  if  he 
could  ever  get  his  mind  back  to  its  peaceful  current  again :  mean 
time  it  was  good  for  him  to  think  of  something  quite  dissociated 
from  the  main  problem. 

What  writer  has  not  felt  the  conscious  red  tingle  in  his  cheeks 
at  first  sight  of  himself  in  the  magnified  personification  of  type  ? 
Here  is  something,  once  himself,  now  expanded  far  beyond 
individual  limits,  into  the  proportions  of  publicity,  for  all  the 
world  to  measure  and  estimate  and  criticize.  Ought  it  to  have 
been  done  in  just  that  way?  Is  there  not  too  much  "I"  in  the 
presentation?  Would  not  the  effect  have  been  greater  had  the 
method  been  less  personal?  It  seemed  to  Banneker  that  he 
himself  stood  forth  in  a  stark  nakedness  of  soul  and  thought, 
through  those  blatantly  assertive  words,  shameless,  challenging 
to  public  opinion,  yet  delightful  to  his  own  appreciation.  On 
the  whole  it  was  good ;  better  than  he  would  have  thought  he 
could  do. 

What  he  had  felt,  in  the  writing  of  it,  to  be  jerks  and  bumps 
were  magically  smoothed  out  in  the  finished  product.  At  one 
point  where  the  copy-reader's  blue  pencil  had  elided  an  adjective 
which  the  writer  had  deemed  specially  telling,  he  felt  a  sharp 
pang  of  disappointed  resentment.  Without  that  characteriza 
tion  the  sentence  seemed  lifeless.  Again,  in  another  passage  he 
wished  that  he  had  edited  himself  with  more  heed  to  the  just 
word.  Why  had  he  designated  the  train  as  "rumbling"  along 
the  cut  ?  Trains  do  not  rumble  between  rock  walls,  he  remem 
bered  ;  they  move  with  a  sustained  and  composite  roar.  And  the 
finger-wringing  malcontent  who  had  vowed  to  "soom";  the 


Enchantment  117 

editorial  pencil  had  altered  that  to  "sue  'em,"  thereby  robbing  it 
of  its  special  flavor.  Perhaps  this  was  in  accordance  with  some 
occult  rule  of  the  trade.  But  it  spoiled  the  paragraph  for  Banne- 
ker.  Nevertheless  he  was  thrilled  and  elate. ...  He  wanted  to 
show  the  article  to  lo.  What  would  she  think  of  it?  She  had 
read  him  accurately :  it  was  in  him  to  write.  And  she  could  help 
him,  if  only  by  —  well,  if  only  by  being  at  hand But  Gard 
ner's  letter  1  That  meant  that  the  pursuit  was  on  again,  more 
formidably  this  time.  Gardner,  the  gadfly,  stinging  this  modern 
lo  out  of  her  refuge  of  peace  and  safety ! 

He  wrote  and  dispatched  a  message  to  the  reporter  in  care  of 
the  Angelica  City  Herald : 

Glad  to  see  you,  but  you  are  wasting  your  time.  No  such  person 
could  be  here  without  my  knowing  it.  Thanks  for  article. 

That  was  as  near  an  untruth  as  Banneker  cared  to  go.  In  his 
own  mind  he  defended  it  on  the  ground  that  the  projected  visit 
would,  in  fact,  be  time  wasted  for  the  journalist  since  he,  Banne 
ker,  intended  fully  that  Gardner  should  not  see  lo.  Deep  would 
have  been  his  disgust  and  self-derision  could  he  have  observed 
the  effect  of  the  message  upon  the  cynical  and  informed  journal 
ist  who,  however,  did  not  receive  it  until  the  second  day  after  its 
transmission,  as  he  had  been  away  on  another  assignment. 

"The  poor  fish !"  was  Gardner's  comment.  "He  doesn't  even 
say  that  she  isn't  there.  He's  got  to  lie  better  than  that  if  he 
goes  into  the  newspaper  game." 

Further,  the  reporter  had  received  a  note  from  the  cowman 
whom  Ban  and  lo  had  encountered  in  the  woods,  modestly  re 
questing  five  dollars  in  return  for  the  warranted  fact  that  a 
" swell  young  lady"  had  been  seen  in  Banneker's  company. 
Other  journalistic  matters  were  pressing,  however ;  he  concluded 
that  the  "Manzanita  Mystery,"  as  he  built  it  up  headline-wise  in 
his  ready  mind,  could  wait  a  day  or  two  longer. 

Banneker,  through  the  mechanical  course  of  his  office,  debated 
the  situation.  Should  he  tell  lo  of  the  message  ?  To  do  so  would 
only  add  to  her  anxieties,  probably  to  no  good  purpose,  for  he  did 
not  believe  that  she  would  desert  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  ill  and  help* 


118  Success 


less,  on  any  selfish  consideration.  Fidelity  was  one  of  the  vir 
tues  with  which  he  had  unconsciously  garlanded  lo.  Then,  too, 
Gardner  might  not  come  anyway.  If  he  did  Banneker  was  inno 
cently  confident  of  his  own  ability  to  outwit  the  trained  reporter 
and  prevent  his  finding  the  object  of  his  quest.  A  prospective  and 
possible  ally  was  forecast  in  the  weather.  Warning  of  another 
rainfall  impending  had  come  over  the  wire.  As  yet  there  was  no 
sign  visible  from  his  far-horizoned  home,  except  a  filmy  and 
changeful  wreath  of  palest  cloud  with  which  Mount  Carstairs 
was  bedecked.  Banneker  decided  for  silence. 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  was  much  better  when  he  rode  over  in  the 
morning,  but  lo  looked  piteously  worn  and  tired. 

"You've  had  no  rest,"  he  accused  her,  away  from  the  sick 
woman's  hearing. 

"Rest  enough  of  its  kind,  but  not  much  sleep,"  said  lo. 

"  But  you've  got  to  have  sleep,"  he  insisted.  "Let  me  stay  and 
look  after  her  to-night." 

"It  wouldn't  be  of  any  use." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  shouldn't  sleep  anyway.  This  house  is  haunted  by  spirits  of 
unrest,"  said  the  girl  fretfully.  "I  think  I'll  take  a  blanket  and 
go  out  on  the  desert." 

l     "And  wake  up  to  find  a  sidewinder  crawling  over  you,  and  a 
!  tarantula  nestling  in  your  ear.  Don't  think  of  it." 

"Ban,"  called  the  voice  of  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  from  the  inner 
room,  clear  and  firm  as  he  had  ever  heard  it. 

He  went  in.  She  stretched  out  a  hand  to  him.  "It's  good  to 
see  you,  Ban.  Have  I  worried  you?  I  shall  be  up  and  about 
•  again  to-morrow."  •> 

"Now,  Miss  Camilla,"  protested  Banneker,  "you  mustn't—" 

"I'm  going  to  get  up  to-morrow, "  repeated  the  other  immuta 
bly.  "  Don't  be  absurd  about  it.  I'm  not  ill.  It  was  only  the  sort 
of  knock-down  that  I  must  expect  from  time  to  time.  Within  a 
day  or  two  you'll  see  me  riding  over.  .  .  .  Ban,  stand  over  there  in 
that  light.  .  .  .  What's  that  you've  got  on?" 

"What,  Miss  Camilla?" 

"That  necktie.  It  isn't  in  your  usual  style.  Where  did  you 
get  it?" 


Enchantment  119 

"  Sent  to  Angelica  City  for  it.  Don't  you  like  it  ?  "  he  returned, 
trying  for  the  nonchalant  air,  but  not  too  successfully. 

"Not  as  well  as  your  spotty  butterflies,"  answered  the  woman 
jealously.  "That's  nonsense,  though.  Don't  mind  me,  Ban,"  she 
added  with  a  wry  smile.  "  Plain  colors  are  right  for  you.  Browns, 
or  blues,  or  reds,  if  they're  not  too  bright.  And  you've  tied  it 
very  well.  Did  it  take  you  long  to  do  it?" 

Reddening  and  laughing,  he  admitted  a  prolonged  and  painful 
session  before  his  glass.  Miss  Van  Arsdale  sighed.  It  was  such  a 
faint,  abandoning  breath  of  regret  as  might  come  from  the  breast 
of  a  mother  when  she  sees  her  little  son  in  his  first  pride  of 
trousers. 

"  Go  out  and  say  good-night  to  Miss  Welland,"  she  ordered, 
"and  tell  her  to  go  to  bed.  I've  taken  a  sleeping  powder."  . 

Banneker  obeyed.  He  rode  home  slowly  and  thoughtfully. 
His  sleep  was  sound  enough  that  night. 

Breakfast-getting  processes  did  not  appeal  to  him  when  he 
awoke  in  the  morning.  He  walked  over,  through  the  earliest 
light,  to  the  hotel,  where  he  made  a  meal  of  musty  eggs,  chemical- 
looking  biscuits,  and  coffee  of  a  rank  hue  and  flavor,  in  an  at 
mosphere  of  stale  odors  and  flies,  sickeningly  different  from  the 
dainty  ceremonials  of  lo's  preparation.  Rebuking  himself  for 
squeamishness,  the  station-agent  returned  to  his  office,  caught 
an  O.S.  from  the  wire,  took  some  general  instructions,  and  went 
out  to  look  at  the  weather.  His  glance  never  reached  the  horizon. 

In  the  foreground  where  he  had  swung  the  hammock  under  the 
alamo  it  checked  and  was  held,  absorbed.  A  blanketed  figure  lay 
motionless  in  the  curve  of  the  meshwork.  One  arm  was  thrown 
across  the  eyes,  warding  a  strong  beam  which  had  forced  its  way 
through  the  lower  foliage.  He  tiptoed  forward. 

lo's  breast  was  rising  and  falling  gently  in  the  hardly  per 
ceptible  rhythm  of  her  breathing.  From  the  pale  yellow  surface 
of  her  dress,  below  the  neck,  protruded  a  strange,  edged  some 
thing,  dun-colored,  sharply  defined  and  alien,  which  the  man's 
surprised  eyes  failed  to  identify.  Slowly  the  edge  parted  and 
flattened  out,  broadwise,  displaying  the  marbled  brilliance  of 
the  butterfly's  inner  wings,  illumining  the  pale  chastity  of  the 
sleeping  figure  as  if  with  a  quivering  and  evanescent  jewel. 


120  Success 

Banneker,  shaken  and  thrilled,  closed  his  eyes.  He  felt  as  if  a 
soul  had  opened  its  secret  glories  to  him.  When,  commanding 
himself,  he  looked  again,  the  living  gem  was  gone.  The  girl  slept 
evenly. 

Conning  the  position  of  the  sun  and  the  contour  of  the  shelter 
ing  tree,  Banneker  estimated  that  in  a  half-hour  or  less  a  flood  of 
sunlight  would  pour  in  upon  the  slumberer's  face  to  awaken  her. 
Cautiously  withdrawing,  he  let  himself  into  the  shack,  lighted 
his  oil  stove,  put  on  water  to  boil,  set  out  the  coffee  and  the 
stand.  He  felt  different  about  breakfast-getting  now.  Having 
prepared  the  arrangements  for  his  prospective  guest,  he  returned 
and  leaned  against  the  alamo,  filling  his  eyes  with  still  delight  of 
the  sleeper. 

Youthful,  untouched,  fresh  though  the  face  was,  in  the  reveal 
ing  stillness  of  slumber,  it  suggested  rather  than  embodied  some 
thing  indefinably  ancient,  a  look  as  of  far  and  dim  inheritances, 
subtle,  ironic,  comprehending,  and  aloof ;  as  if  that  delicate  and 
strong  beauty  of  hers  derived  intimately  from  the  wellsprings 
of  the  race ;  as  if  womanhood,  eternal  triumphant,  and  elusive 
were  visibly  patterned  there. 

Banneker,  leaning  against  the  slender  tree-trunk,  dreamed 
over  her,  happily  and  aimlessly. 

lo  opened  her  eyes  to  meet  his.  She  stirred  softly  and  smiled 
at  him. 

"  So  you  discovered  me,"  she  said. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

She  studied  the  sun  a  moment  before  replying.  "Several 
hours." 

"Did  you  walk  over  in  the  night?" 

"  No.  You  told  me  not  to,  you  know.  I  waited  till  the  dawn. 
Don't  scold  me,  Ban.  I  was  dead  for  want  of  sleep  and  I  couldn't 
get  it  in  the  lodge.  It's  haunted,  I  tell  you,  with  unpeaceful 
spirits.  So  I  remembered  this  hammock." 

"I'm  not  going  to  scold  you.  I'm  going  to  feed  you.  The 
coffee's  on." 

"  How  good !"  she  cried,  getting  to  her  feet.  "  Am  I  a  sight  ?  I 
feel  frowsy." 


Enchantment  121 

"There's  a  couple  of  buckets  of  water  up  in  my  room.  Help 
yourself  while  I  set  out  the  breakfast." 

In  fifteen  minutes  she  was  down,  freshened  and  joyous. 

"I'll  just  take  a  bite  and  then  run  back  to  my  patient,"  she 
said.  "You  can  bring  the  blanket  when  you  come.  It's  heavy  for 
a  three-mile  tramp.  . .  .  What  are  you  looking  thoughtful  and 
sober  about,  Ban?  Do  you  disapprove  of  my  escapade?" 

"That's  a  foolish  question." 

"It's  meant  to  be.  And  it's  meant  to  make  you  smile.  Why 
don't  you?  You  are  worried.  'Fess  up.  What's  happened?" 

"I've  had  a  letter  from  the  reporter  in  Angelica  City." 

"Oh !  Did  he  send  your  article?" 

"He  did.  But  that  isn't  the  point.  He  says  he's  coming  up 
here  again." 

"What  for?" 

"You." 

"Does  he  know  I'm  here?  Did  he  mention  my  name?" 

"  No.  But  he's  had  some  information  that  probably  points  to 
you." 

"What  did  you  answer?" 

Ban  told  her.  "I  think  that  will  hold  him  off,"  he  said  hope 
fully. 

"Then  he's  a  very  queer  sort  of  reporter,"  returned  lo  scorn 
fully  out  of  her  wider  experience.  "  No ;  he'll  come.  And  if  he's 
any  good,  he'll  find  me." 

"You  can  refuse  to  see  him." 

"Yes ;  but  it's  the  mere  fact  of  my  being  here  that  will  probably 
give  him  enough  to  go  on  and  build  up  a  loathsome  article.  How 
I  hate  newspapers  ! .  .  .  Ban,"  she  appealed  wistfully,  "can't  you 
stop  him  from  coming?  Must  I  go?" 

"You  must  be  ready  to  go." 

"Not  until  Miss  Camilla  is  well  again,"  she  declared  obsti 
nately.  "But  that  will  be  in  a  day  or  two.  Oh,  well !  What  does 
it  all  matter !  I've  not  much  to  pack  up,  anyway.  How  are  you 
going  to  get  me  out?" 

"That  depends  on  whether  Gardner  comes,  and  how  he 


122  Success 

He  pointed  to  a  darkening  line  above  the  southwestern  hori 
zon.  "If  that  is  what  it  looks  like,  we  may  be  in  for  another 
flood,  though  I've  never  known  two  bad  ones  in  a  season." 

lo  beckoned  quaintly  to  the  far  clouds.  "Hurry!  Hurry!" 
she  summoned.  "  You  wrecked  me  once.  Now  save  me  from  the 
Vandal.  Good-bye,  Ban.  And  thank  you  for  the  lodging  and  the 
breakfast." 

Emergency  demands  held  the  agent  at  his  station  all  that  day 
and  evening.  Trainmen  brought  news  of  heavy  rains  beyond  the 
mountains.  In  the  morning  he  awoke  to  find  his  little  world 
hushed  in  a  murky  light  and  with  a  tingling  apprehension  of 
suspense  in  the  atmosphere.  High,  gray  cloud  shapes  hurried 
across  the  zenith  to  a  conference  of  the  storm  powers,  gathering 
at  the  horizon.  Weather-wise  from  long  observation,  Banneker 
guessed  that  the  outbreak  would  come  before  evening,  and  that, 
unless  the  sullen  threat  of  the  sky  was  deceptive,  Manzanita 
would  be  shut  off  from  rail  communication  within  twelve  hours 
thereafter.  Having  two  hours'  release  at  noon,  he  rode  over  to 
the  lodge  in  the  forest  to  return  lo's  blanket.  He  found  the  girl 
pensive,  and  Miss  Van  Arsdale  apparently  recovered  to  the 
status  of  her  own  normal  and  vigorous  self. 

"I've  been  telling  lo,"  said  the  older  woman,  "that,  since  the 
rumor  is  out  of  her  being  here,  she  wall  almost  certainly  be  found 
by  the  reporter.  Too  many  people  in  the  village  know  that  I 
have  a  guest." 

"How?"  asked  Banneker. 

"  From  my  marketing.  Probably  from  Pedro." 

"Very  likely  from  the  patron  of  the  Sick  Coyote  that  you  and 
I  met  on  our  wralk,"  added  the  girl. 

"So  the  wise  thing  is  for  her  to  go,"  concluded  Miss  Van 
Arsdale.  "  Unless  she  is  willing  to  risk  the  publicity." 

"Yes,"  assented  lo.  "The  wise  thing  is  for  me  to  go."  She 
spoke  in  a  curious  tone,  not  looking  at  Banneker,  not  looking  at 
anything  outward  and  visible ;  her  vision  seemed  somberly  in 
troverted. 

"Not  now,  though,"  said  Banneker. 

"Why  not? "  asked  both  women.  He  answered  lo. 


Enchantment  123 

"You  called  for  a  storm.  You're  going  to  get  it.  A  big  one. 
I  could  send  you  out  on  Number  Eight,  but  that's  a  way-train 
and  there's  no  telling  where  it  would  land  you  or  when  you'd 
get  through.  Besides,  I  don't  believe  Gardner  is  coming.  I'd 
have  heard  from  him  by  now.  Listen ! " 

The  slow  pat-pat-pat  of  great  raindrops  ticked  like  a  started 
clock  on  the  roof.  It  ceased,  and  far  overhead  the  great,  quiet 
voice  of  the  wind  said,  "Hush  —  sh  —  sh  —  sh  —  sh ! ",  bidding 
the  world  lie  still  and  wait. 

"What  if  he  does  come?"  asked  Miss  Van  Arsdale 
"I'll  get  word  to  you  and  get  her  out  some  way." 
The  storm  burst  on  Banneker,  homebound,  just  as  he  emerged 
from  the  woodland,  in  a  wild,  thrashing  wind  from  the  southwest 
and  a  downpour  the  most  fiercely,  relentlessly  insistent  that  he 
had  ever  known.  A  cactus  desert  in  the  rare  orgy  of  a  rainstorm 
is  a  place  of  wonder.  The  monstrous,  spiky  forms  trembled  and 
writhed  in  ecstasy,  heat-damned  souls  in  their  hour  of  respite, 
stretching  out  exultant  arms  to  the  bounteous  sky.  Tiny  rivu 
lets  poured  over  the  sand,  which  sucked  them  down  with  a 
thirsting,  crisping  whisper.  A  pair  of  wild  doves,  surprised  and 
terrified,  bolted  close  past  the  lone  rider,  so  near  that  his  mount 
shied  and  headed  for  the  shelter  of  the  trees  again.  A  small 
snake,  curving  indecisively  and  with  obvious  bewilderment 
amidst  the  growth,  paused  to  rattle  a  faint  warning,  half  coiled 
in  case  the  horse's  step  meant  a  new  threat,  then  went  on  with 
a  rather  piteous  air  of  not  knowing  where  to  find  refuge  against 
this  cataclysm  of  the  elements. 

Lashing  in  the  wind,  a  long  tentacle  of  the  giant  ocatilla  drew 
its  cimeter-set  thong  across  Ban's  horse  which  incontinently 
bolted.  The  rider  lifted  up  his  voice  and  yelled  in  sheer,  wild, 
defiant  joy  of  the  tumult.  A  lesser  ocatilla  thorn  gashed  his  ear 
so  that  the  blood  mingled  with  the  rain  that  poured  down  his 
face.  A  pod  of  the  fishhook-barbed  cholla  drove  its  points 
through  his  trousers  into  the  flesh  of  his  knee  and,  detaching 
itself  from  the  stem,  as  is  the  detestable  habit  of  this  vegetable 
blood-seeker,  clung  there  like  a  live  thing  of  prey,  from  barbs 
which  must  later  be  removed  delicately  and  separately  with  the 


124  Success 

cold  steel.  Blindly  homing,  a  jack-rabbit  ran  almost  beneath 
the  horse's  hooves,  causing  him  to  shy  again,  this  time  into  a 
bulky  vizcaya,  as  big  as  a  full-grown  man,  and  inflicting  upon 
Ban  a  new  species  of  scarification.  It  did  not  matter.  Nothing 
mattered.  He  rode  on,  knees  tight,  lines  loose,  elate,  shouting, 
singing,  acclaiming  the  storm  which  was  setting  its  irrefragable 
limits  to  the  world  wherein  he  and  lo  would  still  live  close,  a  few 
golden  days  longer. 

What  he  picked  from  the  wire  when  he  reached  it  confirmed 
his  hopes.  The  track  was  threatened  in  a  dozen  places.  Repair 
crews  were  gathering.  Already  the  trains  were  staggering  along, 
far  behind  their  schedule.  They  would,  of  course,  operate  as  far 
as  possible,  but  no  reliance  was  to  be  placed  upon  their  move 
ments  until  further  notice.  Through  the  night  traffic  continued, 
but  with  the  coming  of  the  morning  and  the  settling  down  of  a 
soft,  seeping,  unintermittent  pour  of  gray  rain,  the  situation  had 
clarified.  Nothing  came  through.  Complete  stoppage,  east  and 
west.  Between  Manzanita  and  Stanwood  the  track  was  out,  and 
in  the  other  direction  Dry  Bed  Arroyo  was  threatening.  Ban- 
neker  reported  progress  to  the  lodge  and  got  back,  soaked  and 
happy.  lo  was  thoughtful  and  content. 

Late  that  afternoon  the  station-agent  had  a  shock  which  jarred 
him  quite  out  of  his  complacent  security.  Denny,  the  operator  at 
Stanwood,  wired,  saying : 

Party  here  anxious  to  get  through  to  Manzanita  quick.  Could  auto 
make  upper  desert? 

No  (clicked  Banneker  in  response).  Describe  party. 

The  answer  came  back  confirming  his  suspicion : 

Thin,  nice-spoken,  wears  goggles,  smokes  cork-tips.  Arrived  Five 
from  Angelica  held  here. 

Tell  impossible  by  any  route  (instructed  Banneker).  Wire  result. 

An  hour  later  came  the  reply : 

Won't  try  to-night.  Probably  horse  to-morrow. 

Here  was  a  problem,  indeed,  fit  to  chill  the  untimely  self- 
congratulations  of  Banneker.  Should  the  reporter  come  in  — 


Enchantment  125 

and  come  he  would  if  it  were  humanly  possible,  by  Banneker's 
estimate  of  him  —  it  would  be  by  the  only  route  which  gave 
exit  to  the  west.  On  the  other  side  the  flooded  arroyo  cut  off 
escape.  To  try  to  take  lo  out  through  the  forest,  practically 
trackless,  in  that  weather,  or  across  the  channeled  desert,  would 
be  too  grave  a  risk.  To  all  intents  and  purposes  they  were 
marooned  on  an  island  with  no  reasonable  chance  of  exit  — 
except!  To  Banneker's  feverishly  searching  mind  reverted  a 
local  legend.  Taking  a  chance  on  missing  some  emergency  call, 
he  hurried  over  to  the  village  and  interviewed,  through  the 
persuasive  interpretation  of  sundry  drinks,  an  aged  and  bearded 
wreck  whose  languid  and  chipped  accents  spoke  of  a  life  origi 
nally  far  alien  to  the  habitudes  of  the  Sick  Coyote  where  he  was 
fatalistically  awaiting  his  final  attack  of  delirium  tremens. 

Banneker  returned  from  that  interview  with  a  map  upon  which 
had  been  scrawled  a  few  words  in  shaky,  scholarly  writing. 

"But  one  doesn't  say  it's  safe,  mind  you,"  had  warned  the 
shell  of  Lionel  Streatham  in  his  husky  pipe.  "It's  only  as  a 
sporting  offer  that  one  would  touch  it.  And  the  courses  may  have 
changed  in  seven  years." 

Denny  wired  in  the  morning  that  the  inquiring  traveler  had  set 
out  from  Manzanita,  unescorted,  on  horseback,  adding  the  pre 
diction  that  he  would  have  a  hell  of  a  trip,  even  if  he  got  through 
at  all.  Late  that  afternoon  Gardner  arrived  at  the  station, 
soaked,  hollow-eyed,  stiff,  exhausted,  and  cheerful.  He  shook 
hands  with  the  agent. 

"How  do  you  like  yourself  in  print?"  he  inquired. 

"Pretty  well,"  answered  Banneker.  "It  read  better  than  I 
expected." 

"It  always  does,  until  you  get  old  in  the  business.  How  would 
you  like  a  New  York  job  on  the  strength  of  it?" 

Banneker  stared.  "You  mean  that  I  could  get  on  a  paper  just 
by  writing  that?" 

"I  didn't  say  so.  Though  I've  known  poorer  stuff  land  more 
experienced  men." 

"More  experienced;  that's  the  point,  isn't  it?  I've  had  none 
at  all"! 


126  Success 

"  So  much  the  better.  A  metropolitan  paper  prefers  to  take  a 
man  fresh  and  train  him  to  its  own  ways.  There's  your  advan 
tage  if  you  can  show  natural  ability.  And  you  can." 

"I  see,"  muttered  Banneker  thoughtfully. 

"  Where  does  Miss  Van  Arsdale  live  ?"  asked  the  reporter  with 
out  the  smallest  change  of  tone. 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  Miss  Van  Arsdale  for?"  returned 
the  other,  his  instantly  defensive  manner  betraying  him  to  the 
newspaper  man. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  smiled  Gardner. 

"Miss  Van  Arsdale  has  been  ill.  She's  a  good  deal  of  a  re 
cluse.  She  doesn't  like  to  see  people." 

"Does  her  visitor  share  that  eccentricity ?" 

Banneker  made  no  reply. 

"See  here,  Banneker,"  said  the  reporter  earnestly;  "I'd  like 
to  know  why  you're  against  me  in  this  thing." 

"What  thing?"  fenced  the  agent. 

"My  search  for  lo  Welland." 

"Who  is  lo  Welland,  and  what  are  you  after  her  for?"  asked 
Banneker  steadily. 

"Apart  from  being  the  young  lady  that  you've  been  escorting 
around  the  local  scenery,"  returned  the  imperturbable  journal 
ist,  "she's  the  most  brilliant  and  interesting  figure  in  the  younger 
set  of  the  Four  Hundred.  She's  a  newspaper  beauty.  She's  copy. 
She's  news.  And  when  she  gets  into  a  railroad  wreck  and  dis 
appears  from  the  world  for  weeks,  and  her  supposed  fiance,  the 
heir  to  a  dukedom,  makes  an  infernal  ass  of  himself  over  it  all 
and  practically  gives  himself  away  to  the  papers,  she's  big  news." 

"And  if  she  hasn't  done  any  of  these  things,"  retorted  Ban 
neker,  drawing  upon  some  of  Camilla  Van  Arsdale's  wisdom, 
brought  to  bear  on  the  case,  "she's  libel,  isn't  she?" 

"Hardly  libel.  But  she  isn't  safe  news  until  she's  identified. 
You  see,  I'm  playing  an  open  game  with  you.  I'm  here  to  identify 
Jier,  with  half  a  dozen  newspaper  photos.  Want  to  see  'em?" 

''No,  thank  you." 

"  Not  interested  ?  Are  you  going  to  take  me  over  to  Miss  Van 
Arsdale's?" 


Enchantment  127 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Why  should  I  ?  It's  no  part  of  my  business  as  an  employee  of 
the  road." 

"As  to  that,  I've  got  a  letter  from  the  Division  Superintendent 
asking  you  to  further  my  inquiry  in  any  possible  way.  Here  it 
is." 

Banneker  took  and  read  the  letter.  While  not  explicit,  it  was 
sufficiently  direct. 

"That's  official,  isn't  it?"  said  Gardner  mildly. 

"Yes." 

"Well?" 

"  And  this  is  official,"  added  Banneker  calmly.  "  The  company 
can  go  to  hell.  Tell  that  to  the  D.S.  with  my  compliments,  will 
you?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  don't  want  to  get  you  into  trouble.  I  like 
you.  But  I've  got  to  land  this  story.  If  you  won't  take  me  to 
the  place,  I'll  find  some  one  in  the  village  that  will.  You  can't 
prevent  my  going  there,  you  know." 

"Can't  I?"  Banneker's  voice  had  grown  low  and  cold.  A 
curious  light  shone  in  his  eyes.  There  was  an  ugly  flicker  of  smile 
on  his  set  mouth. 

The  reporter  rose  from  the  chair  into  which  he  had  wetly 
slumped.  He  walked  over  to  face  his  opponent  who  was  standing 
at  his  desk.  Banneker,  lithe,  powerful,  tense,  was  half  again  as 
large  as  the  other ;  obviously  more  muscular,  better-conditioned; 
more  formidable  in  every  way.  But  there  is  about  a  man,  singly 
and  sdflessly  intent  upon  his  job  in  hand,  an  inner  potency  im 
possible  to  obstruct.  Banneker  recognized  it ;  inwardly  admitted, 
too,  the  unsoundness  of  the  swift,  protective  rage  rising  within 
himself. 

"I  don't  propose  to  make  trouble  for  you  or  to  have  trouble 
with  you/'  said  the  reporter  evenly.  "But  I'm  going  to  Miss  Van 
Arsdale's  unless  I'm  shot  on  the  way  there." 

"That's  all  right,"  returned  the  agent,  mastering  himself.  "I 
beg  your  pardon  for  threatening  you.  But  you'll  have  to  find 
your  own  way.  Will  you  put  up  here  for  the  night,  again?" 


128  Success 

" Thanks.  Glad  to,  if  it  won't  trouble  you.  See  you  later." 

"Perhaps  not.  I'm  turning  in  early.  I'll  leave  the  shack  un 
locked  for  you." 

Gardner  opened  the  outer  door  and  was  blown  back  into  the 
station  by  an  explosive  gust  of  soaking  wind. 

"On  second  thought,"  said  he,  "I  don't  think  I'll  try  to  go 
out  there  this  evening.  The  young  lady  can't  very  well  get  away 
to-night,  unless  she  has  wings,  and  it's  pretty  damp  for  flying. 
Can  I  get  dinner  over  at  the  village?" 

"  Such  as  it  is.  I'll  go  over  with  you." 

At  the  entrance  to  the  unclean  little  hotel  they  parted,  Ban- 
neker  going  further  to  find  Mindle  the  "  teamer,"  whom  he  could 
trust  and  with  whom  he  held  conference,  brief  and  very  private. 
They  returned  to  the  station  together  in  the  gathering  darkness, 
got  a  hand  car  onto  the  track,  and  loaded  it  with  a  strange  bur 
den,  after  which  Mindle  disappeared  into  the  storm  with  the  car 
while  Banneker  wired  to  Stan  wood  an  imperative  call  for  a  re 
lief  for  next  day  even  though  the  substitute  should  have  to  walk 
the  twenty-odd  miles.  Thereafter  he  made,  from  the  shack,  a 
careful  selection  of  food  with  special  reference  to  economy  of 
bulk,  fastened  it  deftly  beneath  his  poncho,  saddled  his  horse, 
and  set  out  for  the  Van  Arsdale  lodge.  The  night  was  pitch- 
black  when  he  entered  the  area  of  the  pines,  now  sonorous  with 
the  rush  of  the  upper  winds. 

lo  saw  the  gleam  of  his  flashlight  and  ran  to  the  door  to  meet 
him. 

"Are  you  ready?"  he  asked  briefly. 

"I  can  be  in  fifteen  minutes."  She  turned  away,  asking  no 
questions. 

"  Dress  warmly,"  he  said.  "It's  an  all-night  trip.  By  the  way, 
can  you  swim?" 

"For  hours  at  a  time." 

Camilla  Van  Arsdale  entered  the  room.  "Are  you  taking  her 
away,  Ban?  Where?" 

"  To  Miradero,  on  the  Southwestern  &  Sierra." 

"  But  that's  insanity,"  protested  the  other.  "  Sixty  miles,  isn't 
it?  And  over  trailless  desert." 


Enchantment  129 

"All  of  that.  But  we're  not  going  across  country.  We're  go 
ing  by  water." 

"By  water?  Ban,  you  are  out  of  your  mind.  Where  is  there 
any  waterway?" 

"Dry  Bed  Arroyo.  It's  running  bank-full.  My  boat  is  waiting 
there." 

"But  it  will  be  dangerous.  Terribly  dangerous.  lo,  you 
mustn't." 

"I'll  go,"  said  the  girl  quietly,  "if  Ban  says  so." 

"There's  no  other  way  out.  And  it  isn't  so  dangerous  if  you're 
used  to  a  boat.  Old  Streatham  made  it  seven  years  ago  in  the 
big  flood.  Did  it  in  a  bark  canoe  on  a  hundred-dollar  bet.  The 
Arroyo  takes  you  out  to  the  Little  Bowleg  and  that  empties 
into  the  Rio  Solano,  and  there  you  are !  I've  got  his  map." 

"Map?"  cried  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  "What  use  is  a  map  when 
you  can't  see  your  hand  before  your  face?" 

"Give  this  wind  a  chance,"  answered  Banneker.  "Within 
two  hours  the  clouds  will  have  broken  and  we'll  have  moonlight 
to  go  by. . . .  The  Angelica  Herald  man  is  over  at  the  hotel  now," 
he  added. 

"May  I  take  a  suitcase?"  asked  lo. 

"Of  course.  I'll  strap  it  to  your  pony  if  you'll  get  it  ready. 
Miss  Camilla,  what  shall  we  do  with  the  pony  ?  Hitch  him  under 
the  bridge?" 

"If  you're  determined  to  take  her,  I'll  ride  over  with  you  and 
bring  him  back.  lo,  think!  Is  it  worth  the  risk?  Let  the  re 
porter  come.  I  can  keep  him  away  from  you." 

A  brooding  expression  was  in  the  girl's  deep  eyes  as  she  turned 
them,  not  to  the  speaker,  but  to  Banneker.  "No,"  she  said. 
"I've  got  to  get  away  sooner  or  later.  I'd  rather  go  this  way. 
It's  more  —  it's  more  of  a  pattern  with  all  the  rest ;  better  than 
stupidly  waving  good-bye  from  the  rear  of  a  train." 

"But  the  danger." 

"Che  sara,  sara"  returned  lo  lightly.  "I'll  trust  him  to  take 
care  of  me." 

While  Ban  went  out  to  prepare  the  horses  with  the  aid  of 
Pedro,  strictly  enjoined  to  secrecy,  the  two  women  got  lo's  few 
things  together. 


130  Success 

"I  can't  thank  you,"  said  the  girl,  looking  up  as  she  snapped 
the  lock  of  her  case.  "  It  simply  isn't  a  case  for  thanking.  You've 
done  too  much  for  me." 

The  older  woman  disregarded  it.  "  How  much  are  you  hurting 
Ban?"  she  said,  with  musing  eyes  fixed  on  the  dim  and  pure 
outline  of  the  girlish  face. 

"I?  Hurt  him?" 

"Of  course  he  won't  realize  it  until  you've  gone.  Then  I'm 
afraid  to  think  what  is  coming  to  him." 

"And  I'm  afraid  to  think  what  is  coming  to  me,"  replied  the 
girl,  very  low. 

"Ah,  you!"  retorted  her  hostess,  dismissing  that  considera 
tion  with  contemptuous  lightness.  "You  have  plenty  of  com 
pensations,  plenty  of  resources." 

"Hasn't  he?"' 

"  Perhaps.  Up  to  now.  What  will  he  do  when  he  wakes  up  to 
an  empty  world?" 

"  Write,  won't  he  ?  And  then  the  world  won't  be  empty." 

"He'll  think  it  so.  That  is  why  I'm  sorry  for  him." 

"Won't  you  be  sorry  a  little  for  me?"  pleaded  the  girl. 
"  Anyway,  for  the  part  of  me  that  I'm  leaving  here  ?  Perhaps  it's 
the  very  best  of  me." 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  no!  A  pleasantly 
vivid  dream  of  changed  and  restful  things.  That's  all.  Your 
waking  will  be  only  a  sentimental  and  perfumed  regret  —  a 
sachet-powder  sorrow." 

"You're  bitter." 

"I  don't  want  him  hurt,"  protested  the  other.  "Why  did  you 
come  here  ?  What  should  a  girl  like  you,  feverish  and  sensation- 
loving  and  artificial,  see  in  a  boy  like  Ban  to  charm  you?" 

"Ah,  don't  you  understand?  It's  just  because  my  world  has 
been  too  dressed  up  and  painted  and  powdered  that  I  feel  the 
charm  of  —  of  —  well,  of  ease  of  existence.  He's  as  easy  as  an 
animal.  There's  something  about  him  —  you  must  have  felt  it  — 
a  sort  of  impassioned  sense  of  the  gladness  of  life ;  when  he  has 
those  accesses  he's  like  a  young  god,  or  a  faun.  But  he  doesn't 
know  his  own  power.  At  those  times  he  might  do  anything." 


Enchantment  131 

She  shivered  a  little  and  her  lids  drooped  over  the  luster  of  her 
dreaming  eyes. 

"And  you  want  to  tempt  him  out  of  this  to  a  world  where 
he  would  be  a  wretched  misfit,"  accused  the  older  woman. 

"Do  I?  No;  I  think  I  don't.  I  think  I'd  rather  hold  him  in 
my  mind  as  he  is  here :  a  happy  eremite ;  no,  a  restrained  pagan. 
Oh,  it's  foolish  to  seek  definitions  for  him.  He  isn't  definable. 
He's  Ban..." 

"And  when  you  get  back  into  the  world,  what  will  you  do,  I 
wonder?" 

"  I  won't  send  for  him,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"But  what  will  you  do,  I  wonder?" 

"I  wonder,"  repeated  lo  somberly. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SILENTLY  they  rode  through  the  stir  and  thresh  of  the  night,  the 
two  women  and  the  man.  For  guidance  along  the  woods  trail 
they  must  trust  to  the  finer  sense  of  their  horses  whose  heads 
they  could  not  see  in  the  closed-in  murk.  A  desultory  spray  fell 
upon  them  as  the  wind  wrenched  at  the  boughs  overhead,  but 
the  rain  had  ceased.  Infinitely  high,  infinitely  potent  sounded 
the  imminent  tumult  of  the  invisible  Powers  of  the  night,  on 
whose  sufferance  they  moved,  tiny,  obscure,  and  unharmed.  It 
filled  all  the  distances. 

Debouching  upon  the  open  desert,  they  found  their  range  of 
vision  slightly  expanded.  They  could  dimly  perceive  each  other. 
The  horses  drew  closer  together.  With  his  flash  covered  by  his 
poncho,  Banneker  consulted  a  compass  and  altered  their  course, 
for  he  wished  to  give  the  station,  to  which  Gardner  might  have 
returned,  a  wide  berth.  lo  moved  up  abreast  of  him  as  he  stood, 
studying  the  needle.  Had  he  turned  the  light  upward  he  would 
have  seen  that  she  was  smiling.  Whether  he  would  have  inter 
preted  that  smile,  whether,  indeed,  she  could  have  interpreted  it 
herself,  is  doubtful. 

Presently  they  picked  up  the  line  of  telegraph  poles,  well  be 
yond  the  station,  just  the  faintest  suggestion  of  gaunt  rigor 
against  the  troubled  sky,  and  skirted  them,  moving  more  rapidly 
in  the  confidence  of  assured  direction.  A  very  gradual,  diffused 
alleviation  of  the  darkness  began  to  be  felt.  The  clouds  were 
thinning.  Something  ahead  of  them  hissed  in  a  soft,  full,  insist 
ent  monosonance.  Banneker  threw  up  a  shadowy  arm.  They 
dismounted  on  the  crest  of  a  tiny  desert  clifBet,  now  become  the 
bank  of  a  black  current  which  nuzzled  and  nibbled  into  its  flanks. 

lo  gazed  intently  at  the  flood  which  was  to  deliver  her  out  of 
the  hands  of  the  Philistine.  How  far  away  the  other  bank  of  the 
newborn  stream  might  be,  she  could  only  guess  from  the  vague 
rush  in  her  ears.  The  arroyo's  water  slipped  ceaselessly,  object- 
lessly  away  from  beneath  her  strained  vision,  smooth,  suave, 


Enchantment  133 

even,  effortless,  like  the  process  of  some  unhurried  and  mighty 
mechanism.  Now  and  again  a  desert  plant,  uprooted  from  its 
arid  home,  eddied  joyously  past  her,  satiated  for  once  of  its  life 
long  thirst;  and  farther  out  she  thought  to  have  a  glimpse  of 
some  dead  and  whitish  animal.  But  these  were  minor  blemishes 
on  a  great,  lustrous  ribbon  of  silken  black,  unrolled  and  re-rolled 
from  darkness  into  darkness. 

"It's  beckoning  us,"  said  lo,  leaning  to  Banneker,  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"We  must  wait  for  more  light,"  he  answered. 

"Will  you  trust  yourself  to  that?  "  asked  Camilla  Van  Arsdale, 
with  a  gesture  of  fear  and  repulsion  toward  the  torrent. 

"Anywhere !"  returned  lo.  There  was  exaltation  in  her  voice. 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  cried  the  older  woman.  "How  do  you 
know  what  may  lie  before  you?" 

"That  is  the  thrill  of  it." 

"There  may  be  death  around  the  first  curve.  It's  so  unknown ; 
so  secret  and  lawless." 

"Ah,  and  I'm  lawless !"  cried  lo.  "I  could  defy  the  gods  on  a 
night  like  this  ! " 

She  flung  her  arms  aloft,  in  a  movement  of  sweet,  wild  aban 
don,  and,  as  if  in  response  to  an  incantation,  the  sky  was  reft 
asunder  and  the  moon  rushed  forth,  free  for  the  moment  of  the 
clutching  clouds,  fugitive,  headlong,  a  shining  Maenad  of  the 
heavens,  surrounded  by  the  rush  and  whirl  that  had  whelmed 
earth  and  its  waters  and  was  hurrying  them  to  an  unknown,  mad 
destiny. 

"Now  we  can  see  our  way,"  said  Banneker,  the  practical. 

He  studied  the  few  rods  of  sleek,  foamless  water  between  him 
and  the  farther  bank,  and,  going  to  the  steel  boat  which  Mindle 
had  brought  to  the  place  on  the  handcar,  took  brief  inventory  of 
its  small  cargo.  Satisfied,  he  turned  to  load  in  lo's  few  belongings. 
He  shipped  the  oars. 

"I'll  let  her  go  stern-first,"  he  explained ;  "so  that  I  can  see 
what  we're  coming  to  and  hold  her  if  there's  trouble." 

"But  can  you  see?"  objected  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  directing  a 
troubled  look  at  the  breaking  sky. 


134  Success 


"If  we  can't,  we'll  run  her  ashore  until  we  can." 

He  handed  lo  the  flashlight  and  the  map. 

"You'll  want  me  in  the  bow  seat  if  we're  traveling  reversed," 
Said  she. 

He  assented.  "  Good  sailorwoman  ! " 

"I  don't  like  it,"  protested  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  "It's  a  mad 
business.  Ban,  you  oughtn't  to  take  her." 

"It's  too  late  to  talk  of  that,"  said  lo. 

"Ready?"  questioned  Banneker. 

"Yes." 

He  pushed  the  stern  of  the  boat  into  the  stream,  and  the  cur 
rent  laid  it  neatly  and  powerfully  flat  to  the  sheer  bank.  lo 
kissed  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  quickly  and  got  in. 

"We'll  wire  you  from  Miradero,"  she  promised.  "You'll  find 
the  message  in  the  morning." 

The  woman,  mastering  herself  with  a  difficult  effort,  held  out 
her  hand  to  Banneker. 

"If  you  won't  be  persuaded,"  she  said,  "then  good  — 

"No,"  he  broke  in  quickly.  " That's  bad  luck.  We  shall  be  all 
right."  1 

"  Good  luck,  then,"  returned  his  friend,  and  turned  away  into 
the  night. 

Banneker,  with  one  foot  in  the  boat,  gave  a  little  shove  and 
caught  up  his  oars.  An  unseen  hand  of  indeterminable  might 
grasped  the  keel  and  moved  them  quietly,  evenly,  outward  and 
forward,  puppets  given  into  the  custody  of  the  unregarding 
powers.  Oars  poised  and  ready,  Ban  sat  with  his  back  toward  his 
passenger,  facing  watchfully  downstream. 

Leaning  back  into  the  curve  of  the  bow,  lo  gave  herself  up  to 
the  pulsing  sweep  of  the  night.  Far,  far  above  her  stirred  a 
cosmic  tumult.  The  air  might  have  been  filled  with  vast  wings, 
invisible  and  incessant  in  the  night  of  wonders.  The  moon 
plunged  headlong  through  the  clouds,  now  submerged,  now  free, 
like  a  strong  swimmer  amidst  surf.  She  moved  to  the  music  of  a 
tremendous,  trumpeting  note,  the  voice  of  the  unleashed  Spring, 
male  and  mighty,  exulting  in  his  power,  while  beneath,  the 
responsive,  desirous  earth  thrilled  and  trembled  and  was  glad. 


Enchantment 


The  boat,  a  tiny  speck  on  the  surface  of  chaos,  darted  and 
checked  and  swerved  lightly  at  the  imperious  bidding  of  un- 
guessed  forces,  reaching  up  from  the  depths  to  pluck  at  it  in 
elfish  sportiveness.  Only  when  Ban  thrust  down  the  oar-blades, 
as  he  did  now  and  again  to  direct  their  course  or  avoid  some 
obstacle,  was  lo  made  sensible,  through  the  jar  and  tremor  of 
the  whole  structure,  how  swiftly  they  moved.  She  felt  the  spirit 
of  the  great  motion,  of  which  they  were  a  minutely  inconsider 
able  part,  enter  into  her  soul.  She  was  inspired  of  it,  freed, 
elated,  glorified.  She  lifted  up  her  voice  and  sang.  Ban,  turning, 
gave  her  one  quick  look  of  comprehension,  then  once  more  was 
intent  and  watchful  of  their  master  and  servitor,  the  flood. 

11  Ban,"  she  called. 

He  tossed  an  oar  to  indicate  that  he  had  heard  ' 

"  Come  back  and  sit  by  me." 

He  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"Let  the  boat  go  where  it  wants  to  !  The  river  will  take  care 
of  us.  It's  a  good  river,  and  so  strong  !  I  think  it  loves  to  have  us 
here." 

Ban  shook  his  head. 

"  'Let  the  great  river  bear  us  to  the  sea/  "  sang  lo  in  her  fresh 
and  thrilling  voice,  stirring  the  uttermost  fibers  of  his  being  with 
delight.  "  Ban,  can't  you  trust  the  river  and  the  night  and  —  and 
the  mad  gods?  I  can." 

Again  he  shook  his  head.  In  his  attitude  she  sensed  a  new 
concentration  upon  something  ahead.  She  became  aware  of  a 
strange  stir  that  was  not  of  the  air  nor  the  water. 

"Hush  —  sh  —  sh  —  sh  —  sh  !"  said  something  unseen,  with 
an  immense  effect  of  restraint  and  enforced  quiet. 

The  boat  slewed  sharply  as  Banneker  checked  their  progress 
with  a  downthrust  of  oars.  He  edged  in  toward  the  farther 
bank  which  was  quite  flat,  studying  it  with  an  eye  to  the  most 
favoring  spot,  having  selected  which,  he  ran  the  stern  up  with 
several  hard  shoves,  leapt  out,  hauled  the  body  of  the  craft  free 
from  the  balked  and  snatching  current,  and  held  out  a  hand  to 
his  passenger. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  as  she  ioined  him. 


136  Success 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  trying  to  think  where  I've  heard  that 
noise  before."  He  pondered.  "Ah,  I've  got  it!  It  was  when  I 
was  out  on  the  coast  in  the  big  rains,  and  a  few  million  tons  of 
river-bank  let  go  all  holds  and  smushed  down  into  the  stream. . . . 
What's  on  your  map?" 

He  bent  over  it,  conning  its  detail  by  the  light  of  the  flash 
which  she  turned  on. 

"We  should  be  about  here,"  he  indicated,  touch1  ng  the  paper. 
"I'll  go  ahead  and  take  a  look." 

"Shan't  I  go  with  you?" 

"Better  stay  quiet  and  get  all  the  rest  you  can." 

He  was  gone  some  twenty  minutes.  "  There's  a  big,  fresh- 
looking  split-off  in  the  opposite  bank,"  he  reported;  "and  the 
water  looks  fizzy  and  whirly  around  there.  I  think  we'll  give  her 
a  little  time  to  settle.  A  sudden  shift  underneath  might  suck  us 
down.  The  water's  rising  every  minute,  which  makes  it  worth 
while  waiting.  Besides,  it's  dark  just  now." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  fate  ?  "  asked  the  girl  abruptly,  as  he  seated 
himself  on  the  sand  beside  her.  "That's  a  silly,  schoolgirl  thing 
to  say,  isn't  it?"  she  added.  "But  I  was  thinking  of  this  boat 
being  there  in  the  middle  of  the  dry  desert,  just  when  we  needed 
it  most." 

"It  had  been  there  some  time,"  pointed  out  Banneker.  "And 
if  we  couldn't  have  come  this  way,  I'd  have  found  some 
other." 

"I  believe  you  would,"  crowed  lo  softly. 

"So,  I  don't  believe  in  fate ;  not  the  ready-made  kind.  Things 
aren't  that  easy.  If  I  did  — " 

"If  you  did?"  she  prompted  as  he  paused. 

"I'd  get  back  into  the  boat  with  you  and  throw  away  the 
oars." 

"I  dare  you  !"  she  cried  recklessly. 

"We'd  go  whirling  and  spinning  along,"  he  continued  with 
dreams  in  his  voice,  "until  dawn  came,  and  then  we'd  go  ashore 
and  camp." 

"Where?" 

"How  should  I  know?  In  the  Enchanted  Canyon  where  it 


Enchantment  137 

enters  the  Mountains  of  Fulfillment They're  not  on  this 

map." 

"They're  not  on  any  map.  More's  the  pity.  And  then?" 

"Then  we'd  rest.  And  after  that  we'd  climb  to  the  Plateau 
Beyond  the  Clouds  where  the  Fadeless  Gardens  are,  and 
there..." 

"And  there?" 

"There  we'd  hear  the  Undying  Voices  singing." 

"Should  we  sing,  too?" 

"Of  course.  'For  they  who  attain  these  heights,  through  pain 
of  upward  toil  and  the  rigors  of  abstention,  are  as  the  demigods, 
secure  above  evil  and  the  fear  thereof. ' ': 

"I  don't  know  what  that  is,  but  I  hate  the  ' upward  toil'  part 
of  it,  and  the  ' abstention'  even  more.  We  ought  to  be  able  to 
become  demigods  without  all  that,  just  because  we  wish  it.  In  a 
fairy-tale,  anyway.  I  don't  think  you're  a  really  competent 
fairy-tale-monger,  Ban." 

"You  haven't  let  me  go  on  to  the  'live  happy  ever  after' 
part,"  he  complained. 

"Ah,  that's  the  serpent,  the  lying,  poisoning  little  serpent, 
always  concealed  in  the  gardens  of  dreams.  They  don't,  Ban ; 
people  don't  live  happy  ever  after.  I  could  believe  in  fairy-tales 
up  to  that  point.  Just  there  ugly  old  Experience  holds  up  her 
bony  finger  —  she's  a  horrid  hag,  Ban,  but  we'd  all  be  dead  or 
mad  without  her  —  and  points  to  the  wriggling  little  snake." 

"In  my  garden,"  said  he,  "she'd  have  shining  wings  and  eyes 
that  could  look  to  the  future  as  well  as  to  the  past,  and  immortal 
Hope  for  a  lover.  It  would  be  worth  all  the  toil  and  the  priva 
tion." 

"Nobody  ever  made  up  a  Paradise,"  said  the  girl  fretfully, 
"but  what  the  Puritan  in  him  set  the  road  with  sharp  stones  and 
bordered  it  with  thorns  and  stings.  .  .  .  Look,  Ban !  Here's  the 
moon  come  back  to  us. ...  And  see  what's  laughing  at  us  and 
our  dreams." 

On  the  crest  of  a  sand-billow  sprawled  a  huge  organ-cactus, 
brandishing  its  arms  in  gnomish  derision  of  their  presence. 

"How  can  one  help  but  believe  in  foul  spirits  with  that  thing 


138  Success 

to  prove  their  existence?"  she  said.  "And,  look!  There's  the 
good  spirit  in  front  of  that  shining  cloud." 

She  pointed  to  a  yucca  in  full,  creamy  flower ;  a  creature  of  un 
earthly  purity  in  the  glow  of  the  moon,  a  dream-maiden  beckoning 
at  the  gates  of  darkness  to  a  world  of  hidden  and  ineffable  beauty. 

"When  I  saw  my  first  yucca  in  blossom,"  said  Banneker,  "it 
was  just  before  sunrise  after  I  had  been  riding  all  night,  and  I 
came  on  it  around  a  dip  in  the  hills,  standing  alone  against  a  sky 
of  pearl  and  silver.  It  made  me  think  of  a  ghost,  the  ghost  of  a 
girl  who  had  died  too  young  to  know  womanhood,  died  while  she 
was  asleep  and  dreaming  pale,  soft  dreams,  never  to  be  fulfilled." 

"That's  the  injustice  of  death,"  she  answered.  "To  take  one 
before  one  knows  and  has  felt  and  been  all  that  there  is  to  know 
and  feel  and  be." 

"Yet" —  he  turned  a  slow  smile  to  her  —  "you  were  just  now 
calling  Experience  bad  names;  a  horrid  hag,  wasn't  it?" 

"At  least,  she's  life,"  retorted  the  girl. 

"Yes.  She's  life." 

"Ban,  I  want  to  go  on.  The  whole  universe  is  in  motion.  Why 
must  we  stand  still?" 

They  reembarked.  The  grip  of  the  hurrying  depths  took  them 
past  crinkly  water,  lustrously  bronze  in  the  moonlight  where  the 
bank  had  given  way,  and  presently  delivered  them,  around  the 
shoulder  of  a  low,  brush-crowned  bluff,  into  the  keeping  of  a 
swollen  creek.  Here  the  going  was  more  tricky.  There  were 
shoals  and  whirls  at  the  bends,  and  plunging  flotsam  to  be  avoided. 
Banneker  handled  the  boat  with  masterly  address,  easing  her 
through  the  swift  passages,  keeping  her,  with  a  touch  here  and  a 
dip  there,  to  the  deepest  flow,  swerving  adroitly  to  dodge  the 
trees  and  brush  which  might  have  punctured  the  thin  metal. 
Once  he  cried  out  and  lunged  at  some  object  with  an  unshipped 
oar.  It  rolled  and  sank,  but  not  before  lo  had  caught  the  con 
tour  of  a  pasty  face.  She  was  startled  rather  than  horrified  at 
this  apparition  of  death.  It  seemed  an  accessory  proper  to  the 
pattern  of  the  bewitched  night. 

Through  a  little,  silvered  surf  of  cross-waves,  they  were  shot, 
after  an  hour  of  this  uneasy  going,  into  the  broad,  clean  sweep 


Enchantment  139 

of  the  Little  Bowleg  River.  After  the  troubled  progress  of  the 
lesser  current  it  seemed  very  quiet  and  secure;  almost  placid. 
But  the  banks  slipped  by  in  an  endless  chain.  Presently  they 
came  abreast  of  three  horsemen  riding  the  river  trail,  who  urged 
their  horses  into  a  gallop,  keeping  up  with  them  for  a  mile  or 
more.  As  they  fell  away,  lo  waved  a  handkerchief  at  them,  to 
which  they  made  response  by  firing  a  salvo  from  their  revolvers 
into  the  air. 

"We're  making  better  than  ten  miles  an  hour,"  Banneker 
called  over  his  shoulder  to  his  passenger. 

They  shot  between  the  split  halves  of  a  little,  scraggly,  ram 
shackle  town,  danced  in  white  water  where  the  ford  had  been, 
and  darted  onward.  Now  Banneker  began  to  hold  against  the 
current,  scanning  the  shores  until,  with  a  quick  wrench,  he 
brought  the  stern  around  and  ran  it  up  on  a  muddy  bit  of  strand. 

"  Grub ! "  he  announced  gayly. 

Languor  had  taken  possession  of  To,  the  languor  of  one  who 
yields  to  unknown  and  fateful  forces.  Passive  and  at  peace,  she 
wanted  nothing  but  to  be  wafted  by  the  current  to  whatever  far 
bourne  might  await  her.  That  there  should  be  such  things  as 
railway  trains  and  man-made  schedules  in  this  world  of  winds 
and  mystery  and  the  voice  of  great  waters,  was  hard  to  believe ; 
hardly  worth  believing  in  any  case.  Better  not  to  think  of  it : 
better  to  muse  on  her  companion,  building  fire  as  the  first  man 
had  built  for  the  first  woman,  to  feed  and  comfort  her  in  an 
environment  of  imminent  fears. 

Coffee,  when  her  man  brought  it,  seemed  too  artificial  for  the 
time  and  place.  She  shook  her  head.  She  was  not  hungry. 

"You  must,"  insisted  Ban.  He  pointed  downstream  where  the 
murk  lay  heavy.  "We  shall  run  into  more  rain.  You  will  need 
the  warmth  and  support  of  food." 

So,  because  there  were  only  they  two  on  the  face  of  the  known 
earth,  woman  and  man,  the  woman  obeyed  the  man.  To  her  sur 
prise,  she  found  that  she  was  hungry,  ardently  hungry.  Both  ate 
heartily.  It  was  a  silent  meal;  little  spoken  except  about  the 
chances  and  developments  of  the  journey,  until  she  got  to  her 
feet.  Then  she  said : 


140  Success 


"I  shall  never,  as  long  as  I  live,  wherever  I  go,  whatever  I  do, 
know  anything  like  this  again.  I  shall  not  want  to.  I  want  it  to 
stand  alone." 

"It  will  stand  alone,"  he  answered. 

They  met  the  rain  within  half  an  hour,  a  wall-like  mass  of  it. 
It  blotted  out  everything  around  them.  The  roar  of  it  cut  off 
sound,  as  the  mass  of  it  cut  off  sight.  Fortunately  the  boat  was 
now  going  evenly  as  in  an  oiled  groove.  By  feeling,  lo  knew  that 
her  guide  was  moving  from  his  seat,  and  guessed  that  he  was 
bailing.  The  spare  poncho,  put  in  by  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  pro 
tected  her.  She  was  jubilant  with  the  thresh  of  the  rain  in  her 
face,  the  sweet,  smooth  motion  of  the  boat  beneath  her,  the  wild 
abandon  of  the  night,  which,  entering  into  her  blood,  had  trans 
muted  it  into  soft  fire. 

How  long  she  crouched,  exultant  and  exalted,  under  the  beat 
of  the  storm,  she  could  not  guess.  She  half  emerged  from  her 
possession  with  a  strange  feeling  that  the  little  craft  was  being 
irresistibly  drawn  forward  and  downward  in  what  was  now  a 
suction  rather  than  a  current.  At  the  same  time  she  felt  the 
spring  and  thrust  of  Banneker's  muscles,  straining  at  the  oars. 
She  dipped  a  hand  into  the  water.  It  ridged  high  around  her 
wrists  with  a  startling  pressure.  What  was  happening? 

Through  the  uproar  she  could  dimly  hear  Ban's  voice.  He 
seemed  to  be  swearing  insanely.  Dropping  to  her  hands  and 
knees,  for  the  craft  was  now  swerving  and  rocking,  she  crept  to 
him. 

"The  dam!  The  dam!  The  dam!"  he  shouted.  "I'd  for 
gotten  about  it.  Go  back.  Turn  on  the  flash.  Look  for  shore." 

Against  rather  than  into  that  impenetrable  enmeshment  of 
rain,  the  glow  dispersed  itself  ineffectually.  lo  sat,  not  fright 
ened  so  much  as  wondering.  Her  body  ached  in  sympathy  with 
the  panting,  racking  toil  of  the  man  at  the  oars,  the  labor  of  an 
indomitable  pigmy,  striving  to  thwart  a  giant's  will.  Suddenly 
he  shouted.  The  boat  spun.  Something  low  and  a  shade  blacker 
than  the  dull  murk  about  them,  with  a  white,  whispering  ripple 
at  its  edge,  loomed.  The  boat's  prow  drove  into  soft  mud  as 
Banneker,  all  but  knocking  her  overboard  in  his  dash,  plunged 


Enchantment  141 

to  the  land  and  with  one  powerful  lift,  brought  boat  and  cargo 
to  safety. 

For  a  moment  he  leaned,  gasping,  against  a  stump.  When  he 
spoke,  it  was  to  reproach  himself  bitterly. 

"We  must  have  come  through  the  town.  There's  a  dam 
below  it.  I'd  forgotten  it.  My  God !  If  we  hadn't  had  the  luck 
to  strike  shore." 

"  Is  it  a  high  dam  ?  "  she  asked. 

"In  this  flood  we'd  be  pounded  to  death  the  moment  we  were 
over.  Listen !  You  can  hear  it." 

The  rain  had  diminished  a  little.  Above  its  insistence  sounded 
a  deeper,  more  formidable  beat  and  thrill. 

"We  must  be  quite  close  to  it,"  she  said. 

"A  few  rods,  probably.  Let  me  have  the  light.  I  want  to 
explore  before  we  start  out." 

Much  sooner  than  she  had  expected,  he  was  back.  He  groped 
for  and  took  her  hand.  His  own  was  steady,  but  his  voice  shook 
as  he  said: 

"lo." 

"It's  the  first  time  you've  called  me  that.  Well,  Ban?" 

"Can  you  stand  it  to  —  to  have  me  tell  you  something?" 

"Yes." 

"We're  not  on  the  shore." 

"Where,  then?  An  island?  " 

"There  aren't  any  islands  here.  It  must  be  a  bit  of  the  main 
land  cut  off  by  the  flood." 

"I'm  not  afraid,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  We  can  stand  it 
until  dawn." 

A  wavelet  lapped  quietly  across  her  foot.  She  withdrew  it  and 
with  that  involuntary  act  came  understanding.  Her  hand,  turn 
ing  in  his,  pressed  close,  palm  cleaving  to  palm. 

"How  much  longer?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"Not  long.  It's  just  a  tiny  patch.  And  the  river  is  rising 
every  minute." 

"How  long?"  she  persisted. 

"Perhaps  two  hours.  Perhaps  less.  My  good  God!  If  there's 
any  special  hell  for  criminal  fools,  I  ought  to  go  to  it  for  bringing 
you  to  this,"  he  burst  out  in  agony. 


142  Success 


"I  brought  you.  Whatever  there  is,  we'll  go  to  it  together." 

" You're  wonderful  beyond  all  v/onders.  Aren't  you  afraid?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  isn't  so  much  fear,  though  I  dread  to  think 
of  that  hammering-down  weight  of  water." 

"  Don't ! "  he  cried  brokenly.  "  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  — " 
He  lifted  his  head  sharply.  " Isn't  it  lightening  up ?  Look!  Can 
you  see  shore?  We  might  be  quite  near." 

She  peered  out,  leaning  forward.  "No ;  there's  nothing."  Her 
hand  turned  within  his,  released  itself  gently.  "I'm  not  afraid," 
she  said,  speaking  clear  and  swift.  "It  isn't  that.  But  I'm  — 
rebellious.  I  hate  the  idea  of  it,  of  ending  everything ;  the  unfair 
ness  of  it.  To  have  to  die  without  knowing  the  —  the  ealness  of 
life.  Unfulfilled.  It  isn't  fair,"  she  accused  breathless  y.  "Ban, 
it's  what  we  were  saying.  Back  there  on  the  river-ba.-k  where 
the  yucca  stands.  I  don't  want  to  go  —  I  can't  bear  to  go  — 
before  I've  known. . .  before.  . .  " 

Her  arms  crept  to  enfold  him.  Her  lips  sought  his,  tremulous, 
surrendering,  demanding  in  surrender.  With  all  the  passion  and 
longing  that  he  h&d  held  in  control,  refusing  to  acknowledge 
even  their  existence,  as  if  the  mere  recognition  of  them  would 
have  blemished  her,  he  caught  her  to  him.  He  heard  her,  felt 
her  sob  once.  The  roar  of  the  cataract  was  louder,  more  insist 
ent  in  his  ears. . .  or  was  it  the  rush  of  the  blood  in  his  veins? . . . 
lo  cried  out,  a  desolate  and  hungry  cry,  for  he  had  wrenched  his 
mouth  from  hers.  She  could  feel  the  inner  man  abruptly  with 
drawn,  concentrated  elsewhere.  She  opened  her  eyes  upon  an 
appalling  radiance  wherein  his  face  stood  out  clear,  incredulous, 
then  suddenly  eager  'and  resolute. 

"It's  a  headlight !"  he  cried.  "A  train !  Look,  lo !  The  main 
land.  It's  only  a  couple  of  rods  away." 

He  slipped  from  her  arms,  ran  to  the  boat. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  called  weakly.  "Ban !  You 
can  never  make  it." 

"I've  got  to.  It's  our  only  chance." 

As  he  spoke,  he  was  fumbling  under  the  seat.  He  brought  out  a 
coil  of  rope.  Throwing  off  poncho,  coat,  and  waistcoat,  he  coiled 
the  lengths  around  his  body. 


Enchantment  143 

"Let  me  swim  with  you,"  she  begged. 

"  You're  not  strong  enough." 

"I  don't  care.  We'd  go  together. .  .1  —  I  can't  face  it  alone, 
Ban." 

"  You'll  have  to.  Or  give  up  our  only  chance  of  life.  You  must, 
lo.  If  I  shouldn't  get  across,  you  may  try  it ;  the  chances  of  the 
current  might  help  you.  But  not  until  after  you're  sure  I  haven't 
made  it.  You  must  wait." 

"Yes,"  she  said  submissively. 

"As  soon  as  I  get  to  shore,  I'll  throw  the  rope  across  to  you. 
Listen  for  it.  I'll  keep  throwing  until  it  strikes  where  you  can  get 
it." 

"I'll  give  you  the  light." 

"That  may  help.  Then  you  make  fast  under  the  forward  seat 
of  the  boat.  Be  sure  it's  tight." 

"Yes,  Ban." 

"Twitch  three  times  on  the  rope  to  let  me  know  when  you're 
ready  and  shove  out  and  upstream  as  strongly  as  you  can." 

"Can  you  hold  it  against  the  current?" 

"I  must.  If  I  do,  you'll  drift  around  against  the  bank.  If  I 
don't  —  I'll  follow  you." 

"No,  Ban,"  she  implored.  "Not  you,  too.  There's  no  need— " 

"I'll  follow  you,"  said  he.  "Now,  lo." 

He  kissed  her  gently,  stepped  back,  took  a  run  and  flung  him 
self  upward  and  outward  into  the  ravening  current. 

She  saw  a  foaming  thresh  that  melted  into  darkness  . . . 

Time  seemed  to  have  stopped  for  her.  She  waited,  waited, 
waited  in  a  world  wherein  only  Death  waited  with  her.  .  .  .  Ban 
was  now  limp  and  lifeless  somewhere  far  downstream,  asprawl  in 
the  swiftness,  rolling  a  pasty  face  to  the  sky  like  that  grisly  way 
farer  who  had  hailed  them  silently  in  the  upper  reach  of  the  river, 
a  messenger  and  prophet  of  their  fate.  The  rising  waters  eddied 
about  her  feet.  The  boat  stirred  uneasily.  Mechanically  she 
drew  it  back  from  the  claim  of  the  flood.  A  light  blow  fell  upon 
her  cheek  and  neck. 

It  was  the  rope. 

Instantly  and  intensely  alive,  lo  tautened  it  and  felt  the  jerk 


144  Success 

of  Ban's  signal.  With  expert  hands  she  made  it  fast,  shipped  the 
oars,  twitched  the  cord  thrice,  and,  venturing  as  far  as  she  dared 
into  the  deluge,  pushed  with  all  her  force  and  threw  herself  over 
the  stern. 

The  rope  twanged  and  hummed  like  a  gigantic  bass-string. 
lo  crawled  to  the  oars,  felt  the  gunwale  dip  and  right  again,  and, 
before  she  could  take  a  stroke,  was  pressed  against  the  far  bank. 
She  clambered  out  and  went  to  Bannekei,  guiding  herself  by  the 
light.  His  face,  in  the  feeble  glow,  shone,  twisted  in  agony.  He 
was  shaking  from  head  to  foot.  The  other  end  of  the  rope  which 

had  brought  her  to  safety  was  knotted  fast  around  his  waist 

So  he  would  have  followed,  as  he  said ! 

Through  lo's  queer,  inconsequent  brain  flitted  a  grotesque 
conjecture:  what  would  the  newspapers  make  of  it  if  she  had 
been  found,  washed  up  on  the  river-bank,  and  the  Manzanita 
agent  of  the  Atkinson  &  St.  Philip  Railroad  Company  drowned 
and  haltered  by  a  long  tether  to  his  boat,  near  by  ?  A  sensational 
story ! . . . 

She  went  to  Banneker,  still  helplessly  shaking,  and  put  her 
firm,  slight  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"It's  all  right,  Ban,"  she  said  soothingly.  "We're  out  of  it." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"ARRIVED  safe"  was  the  laconic  message  delivered  to  Miss 
Camilla  Van  Arsdale  by  Banneker's  substitute  when,  after  a 
haggard  night,  she  rode  over  in  the  morning  for  news. 

Banneker  himself  returned  on  the  second  noon ,  after  much  and 
roundabout  wayfaring.  He  had  little  to  say  of  the  night  journey ; 
nothing  of  the  peril  escaped.  Miss  Welland  had  caught  a  morn 
ing  train  for  the  East.  She  was  none  the  worse  for  the  adventur 
ous  trip.  Camilla  Van  Arsdale,  noting  his  rapt  expression  and 
his  absent,  questing  eyes,  wondered  what  underlay  such  reti 
cence.  . .  .What  had  been  the  manner  of  their  parting? 

It  had,  indeed,  been  anti-climax.  Both  had  been  a  little  shy, 
a  little  furtive.  Each,  perhaps  feeling  a  mutual  strain,  wanted 
the  parting  over,  restlessly  desiring  the  sedative  of  thought  and 
quiet  memory  after  that  stress.  The  desperate  peril  from  which 
they  had  been  saved  seemed  a  lesser  crisis,  leading  from  a  greater 
and  more  significant  one  ;  leading  to  —  what  ?  For  his  part  Ban 
neker  was  content  to  "breathe  and  wait."  When  they  should 
meet  again,  it  would  be  determined.  How  and  when  the  en 
counter  might  take  place,  he  did  not  trouble  himself  to  consider. 
The  whole  universe  was  moulded  and  set  for  that  event.  Mean 
time  the  glory  was  about  him  ;  he  could  remember,  recall,  repeat, 
interpret . . . 

For  the  hundredth  time  —  or  was  it  the  thousandth  ?  —  he 
reconstructed  that  last  hour  of  theirs  together  in  the  station  at 
Miradero,  waiting  for  the  train.  What  had  they  said  to  each 
other?  Commonplaces,  mostly,  and  at  times  with  effort,  as  if 
they  were  making  conversation.  They  two  !  After  that  passion 
ate  and  revealing  moment  between  life  and  death  on  the  island. 
What  should  he  have  said  to  her?  Begged  her  to  stay?  On  what 
basis  ?  How  could  he  ? ...  As  the  distant  roar  of  the  train  warned 
them  that  the  time  of  parting  was  close,  it  was  she  who  broke 
through  that  strange  restraint,  turning  upon  him  her  old-time 
limpid  and  resolute  regard. 


146  Success 


"Ban ;  promise  me  something." 

"Anything." 

"There  may  be  a  time  coming  for  us  when  you  won't  under 
stand." 

"Understand  what?" 

"Me.  Perhaps  I  shan't  understand  myself." 

"You'll  always  understand  yourself,  lo." 

"If  that  comes  —  when  that  comes  —  Ban,  there's  something 
in  the  book,  our  book,  that  I've  left  you  to  read." 

"'The  Voices'?" 

"Yes.  I've  fastened  the  pages  together  so  that  you  can't  read 
it  too  soon." 

"When,  then?" 

"When  I  tell  you. .  .No;  not  when  I  tell  you.  When  —  oh, 
when  you  must !  You'll  read  it,  and  afterward,  when  you  think 
of  me,  you'll  think  of  that,  too.  Will  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Always?" 

"Always." 

"No  matter  what  happens?" 

"No  matter  what  happens." 

"It's  like  a  litany."  She  laughed  tremulously.. .  ."Here's  the 
train.  Good-bye,  dear." 

He  felt  the  tips  of  slender  fingers  on  his  temples,  the  light, 

swift  pressure  of  cold  lips  on  his  mouth While  the  train  pulled 

out,  she  stood  on  the  rear  platform,  looking,  looking.  She  was 
very  still.  All  motion,  all  expression  seemed  centered  in  the 
steady  gaze  which  dwindled  away  from  him,  became  vague . . . 
featureless . . .  vanished  in  a  lurch  of  the  car. 

Banneker,  at  home  again,  planted  a  garden  of  dreams,  and 
lived  in  it,  mechanically  acceptant  of  the  outer  world,  resentful 
of  any  intrusion  upon  that  flowerful  retreat.  Even  of  Miss  Van 
Arsdale's. 

Not  for  days  thereafter  did  the  Hunger  come.  It  began  as  a 
little  gnawing  doubt  and  disappointment.  It  grew  to  a  devastat 
ing,  ravening  starvation  of  the  heart,  for  sign  or  sight  or  word  of 
lo  Welland.  It  drove  him  out  of  his  withered  seclusion,  to  seek 


Enchantment  147 


Miss  Van  Arsdale,  in  the  hope  of  hearing  lo's  name  spoken. 
But  Miss  Van  Arsdale  scarcely  referred  to  lo.  She  watched 
Banneker  with  unconcealed  anxiety. 

. .  .Why  had  there  been  no  letter?. . . 

Appeasement  came  in  the  form  of  a  package  addressed  in  her 
handwriting.  Avidly  he  opened  it.  It  was  the  promised  Bible, 
mailed  from  New  York  City.  On  the  fly-leaf  was  written 
"I.  O.  W.  to  E.  B."  —  nothing  more.  He  went  through  it  page 
by  page,  seeking  marked  passages.  There  was  none.  The  doubt 
settled  down  on  him  again.  The  Hunger  bit  into  him  more 
savagely. 

. . .  Why  didn't  she  write  ?  A  word !  Anything ! 

. . .  Had  she  written  Miss  Van  Arsdale  ? 

At  first  it  was  intolerable  that  he  should  be  driven  to  ask  about 
her  from  any  other  person ;  about  lo,  who  had  clasped  him  in  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow,  whose  lips  had  made  the  imminence  of 
death  seem  a  light  thing !  The  Hunger  drove  him  to  it. 

Yes;  Miss  Van  Arsdale  had  heard.  lo  Welland  was  in  New 
York,  and  well.  That  was  all.  But  Banneker  felt  an  undermin 
ing  reserve. 

Long  days  of  changeless  sunlight  on  the  desert,  an  intolerable 
glare.  From  the  doorway  of  the  lonely  station  Banneker  stared 
out  over  leagues  of  sand  and  cactus,  arid,  sterile,  hopeless, 
promiseless.  Life  was  like  that.  Four  weeks  now  since  lo  had 
left  him.  And  still,  except  for  the  Bible,  no  word  from  her.  No 
sign.  Silence. 

Why  that?  Anything  but  that !  It  was  too  unbearable  to  his 
helpless  masculine  need  of  her.  He  could  not  understand  it.  He 
could  not  understand  anything.  Except  the  Hunger.  That  he 
understood  well  enough  now 

At  two  o'clock  of  a  savagely  haunted  night,  Banneker  stag 
gered  from  his  cot.  For  weeks  he  had  not  known  sleep  otherwise 
than  in  fitful  passages.  His  brain  was  hot  and  blank.  Although 
the  room  was  pitch-dark,  he  crossed  it  unerringly  to  a  shelf  and 
took  down  his  revolver.  Slipping  on  overcoat  and  shoes,  he 
dropped  the  weapon  into  his  pocket  and  set  out  up  the  railroad 
track.  A  half-mile  he  covered  before  turning  into  the  desert. 


148  Success 

There  he  wandered  aimlessly  for  a  few  minutes,  and  after  that 
groped  his  way,  guarding  with  a  stick  against  the  surrounding 
threat  of  the  cactus,  for  his  eyes  were  tight  closed.  Still  blind, 
he  drew  out  the  pistol,  gripped  it  by  the  barrel,  and  threw  it, 
whirling  high  and  far,  into  the  trackless  waste.  He  passed  on, 
feeling  his  uncertain  way  patiently. 

It  took  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  find  the  railroad  track  and 

set  a  sure  course  for  home,  so  effectually  had  he  lost  himself 

No  chance  of  his  recovering  that  old  friend.  It  had  been  whisper 
ing  to  him,  in  the  blackness  of  empty  nights,  counsels  that  were 
too  persuasive. 

Back  in  his  room  over  the  station  he  lighted  the  lamp  and  stood 
before  the  few  books  which  he  kept  with  him  there ;  among  them 
lo's  Bible  and  "The  Undying  Voices,"  with  the  two  pages  still 
joined  as  her  fingers  had  left  them.  He  was  summoning  his 
courage  to  face  what  might  be  the  final  solution.  When  he  must, 
she  had  said,  he  was  to  open  and  read.  Well ...  he  must.  He 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  the  wordless  uncertainty.  He  lifted  down 
the  volume,  gently  parted  the  fastened  pages  and  read.  From 
out  the  still,  ordered  lines,  there  rose  to  him  the  passionate  cry 
of  protest  and  bereavement : 

" Nevermore 

Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore  — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.  The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.  What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.  And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thinj 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two." 

Over  and  over  he  read  it  with  increasing  bewilderment,  with  in 
creasing  fear,  with  slow-developing  comprehension.  If  that  was  to 
be  her  farewell . . .  but  why !  lo,  the  straightforward,  the  intrepid, 


Enchantment  149 

the  exponent  of  fair  play  and  the  rules  of  the  game!  .  .  .  Had  it 
been  only  a  game?  No;  at  least  he  knew  better  than  that. 

What  could  it  all  mean?  Why  that  medium  for  her  message? 
Should  he  write  and  ask  her?  But  what  was  there  to  ask  or  say, 
in  the  face  of  her  silence?  Besides,  he  had  not  even  her  address. 
Miss  Camilla  could  doubtless  give  him  that.  But  would  she? 
How  much  did  she  understand?  Why  had  she  turned  so  unhelp 
ful? 

Banneker  sat  with  his  problem  half  through  a  searing  night; 
and  the  other  half  of  the  night  he  spent  in  writing.  But  not  to  lo. 

At  noon  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  rode  up  to  the  station. 

"Are  you  ill,  Ban?"  was  her  greeting,  as  soon  as  she  saw  his 
face. 

"No,  Miss  Camilla.   I'm  going  away." 

She  nodded,  confirming  not  so  much  what  he  said  as  a  fulfilled 
suspicion  of  her  own.  "New  York  is  a  very  big  city,"  she  said. 

"I  haven't  said  that  I  was  going  to  New  York." 
'No;  there  is  much  you  haven't  said." 
'I  haven't  felt  much  like  talking.  Even  to  you." 
'Don't  go,  Ban." 

'I've  got  to.  I've  got  to  get  away  from  here." 
'And  your  position  with  the  railroad?" 
'I've  resigned.    It's  all  arranged."   He  pointed  to  the  pile  of 
letters,  his  night's  work. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"How  do  I  know!  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Camilla.  Write, 
I  suppose." 

"Write  here." 

"There's  nothing  to  write  about." 

The  exile,  who  had  spent  her  years  weaving  exquisite  music 
from  the  rhythm  of  desert  winds  and  the  overtones  of  the  forest 
silence,  looked  about  her,  over  the  long,  yellow-gray  stretches 
pricked  out  with  hints  of  brightness,  to  the  peaceful  refuge  of  the 
pines,  and  again  to  the  naked  and  impudent  meanness  of  the 
town.  Across  to  her  ears,  borne  on  the  air  heavy  with  rain  still 
unshed,  came  the  rollicking,  ragging  jangle  of  the  piano  at  the 
Sick  Coyote. 


150  Success 

"Aren't  there  people  to  write  about  there?  "  she  said.  "Trage 
dies  and  comedies  and  the  human  drama?  Barrie  found  it  in  a 
duller  place." 

"Not  until  he  had  seen  the  world  first,"  he  retorted  quickly. 
"And  I'm  not  a  Barrie.  ...  I  can't  stay  here,  Miss  Camilla." 

"Poor  Ban!  Youth  is  always  expecting  life  to  fulfill  itself. 
It  doesn't." 

"No;  it  doesn't  —  unless  you  make  it." 

"  And  how  will  you  make  it?  " 

"I'm  going  to  get  on  a  newspaper." 

"  It  isn't  so  easy  as  all  that,  Ban." 

"I've  been  writing." 

In  the  joyous  flush  of  energy,  evoked  under  the  spell  of  lo's 
enchantment,  he  had  filled  his  spare  hours  with  work,  happy, 
exuberant,  overflowing  with  a  quaint  vitality.  A  description  of 
the  desert  in  spate,  thumb-nail  sketches  from  a  station-agent's 
window,  queer  little  flavorous  stories  of  crime  and  adventure  and 
petty  intrigue  in  the  town;  all  done  with  a  deftness  and  brevity 
that  was  saved  from  being  too  abrupt  only  by  broad  touches  of 
color  and  light.  And  he  had  had  a  letter.  He  told  Miss  Van 
Arsdale  of  it. 

"Oh,  if  you've  a  promise,  or  even  a  fair  expectation  of  a  place. 
But,  Ban,  I  wouldn't  go  to  New  York,  anyway." 

"Why  not?" 

"It's  no  use." 

His  strong  eyebrows  went  up.  "Use?" 

"You  won't  find  her  there." 

"  She  'snot  in  New  York?" 

"No." 

"You've  heard  from  her,  then?  Where  is  she?" 

"Gone  abroad." 

Upon  that  he  meditated.   "She'll  come  back,  though." 

"Not  to  you." 

He  waited,  silent,  attentive,  incredulous. 

"Ban;  she's  married." 

"Married!" 

The  telegraph  instrument  clicked  in  the  tiny  rhythm  of  an 


Enchantment  151 

elfin  bass-drum.  "O.S.  O.S."  Click.  Click.  Click-click-click. 
Mechanically  responsive  to  his  office  he  answered,  and  for  a 
moment  was  concerned  with  some  message  about  a  local  freight. 
When  he  raised  his  face  again,  Miss  Van  Arsdale  read  there  a 
sick  and  floundering  skepticism. 

"Married!  "he  repeated.   "lo!    She  couldn't." 

The  woman,  startled  by  the  conviction  in  his  tone,  wondered 
how  much  that  might  imply. 

"She  wrote  me,"  said  she  presently. 

"That  she  was  married?" 

"That  she  would  be  by  the  time  the  letter  reached  me." 

("You  will  think  me  a  fool,"  the  girl  had  written  impetuously, 
"and  perhaps  a  cruel  fool.  But  it  is  the  wise  thing,  really.  Del 
Eyre  is  so  safe!  He  is  safety  itself  for  a  girl  like  me.  And  I  have 
discovered  that  I  can't  wholly  trust  myself.  ...  Be  gentle  with 
him,  and  make  him  do  something  worth  while.") 

"Ah!"  said  Ban.   "But  that— " 

"And  I  have  the  newspaper  since  with  an  account  of  the 
wedding  . .  .  Ban!  Don't  look  like  that  1 " 

"  Like  what  ?  "  said  he  stupidly. 

"  You  look  like  Pretty  Willie  as  I  saw  him  when  he  was  work 
ing  himself  up  for  the  killing."  Pretty  Willie  was  the  soft-eyed 
young  desperado  who  had  cleaned  out  the  Sick  Coyote. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  kill  anybody,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of 
grim  amusement  for  her  fears.  "Not  even  myself."  He  rose  and 
went  to  the  door.  "Do  you  mind,  Miss  Camilla?"  he  added  ap- 
pealingly. 

"You  want  me  to  leave  you  now?" 

He  nodded.    "I've  got  to  think." 

"When  would  you  leave,  Ban,  if  you  do  go?" 

"I  don't  know." 

On  the  following  morning  he  went,  after  a  night  spent  in  ar 
ranging,  destroying,  and  burning.  The  last  thing  to  go  into  the 
stove,  67  S  4230,  was  a  lock  of  hair,  once  glossy,  but  now  stiff 
ened  and  stained  a  dull  brown,  which  he  had  cut  from  the  wound 
on  lo's  head  that  first,  strange  night  cf  theirs,  the  stain  of  her 
blood  that  had  beaten  in  her  heart,  and  given  life  to  the  sure, 


152  Success 

sweet  motion  of  her  limbs,  and  flushed  in  her  cheeks,  and  pulsed 
in  the  warm  lips  that  she  had  pressed  to  his  —  Why  could  they 
not  have  died  together  on  their  dissolving  island,  with  the  night 
about  them,  and  their  last,  failing  sentience  for  each  other  ! 

The  flame  of  the  greedy  stove  licked  up  the  memento,  but  not 
the  memory. 

"You  must  not  worry  about  me,"  he  wrote  in  the  note  left 
with  his  successor  for  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  "I  shall  be  all  right.  I 
am  going  to  succeed." 


END  OF  PART  I 


PART  II 
THE  VISION 


PART  II 

THE  VISION 
CHAPTER  I 

MRS.  BRASHEAR'S  rooming-house  on  Grove  Street  wore  its  air  of 
respectability  like  a  garment,  clean  and  somber,  in  an  environ 
ment  of  careful  behavior.  Greenwich  Village,  not  having  fully 
awakened  to  the  commercial  advantages  of  being  a  locale,  had 
not  yet  stretched  between  itself  and  the  rest  of  New  York  that 
gauzy  and  iridescent  curtain  of  sprightly  impropriety  and  spark 
ling  intellectual  naughtiness,  since  faded  to  a  rather  tawdry 
pattern.  An  early  pioneer  of  the  Villager  type,  emancipated  of 
thought  and  speech,  chancing  upon  No.  n  Grove,  would  have 
despised  it  for  its  lack  of  atmosphere  and  its  patent  conserva 
tism.  It  did  not  go  out  into  the  highways  and  byways,  seeking 
prospective  lodgers.  It  folded  its  hands  and  waited  placidly  for 
them  to  come.  When  they  came,  it  pondered  them  with  care, 
catechized  them  tactfully,  and  either  rejected  them  with  courte 
ous  finality  or  admitted  them  on  probation.  Had  it  been  given 
to  self-exploitation,  it  could  have  boasted  that  never  had  it  har 
bored  a  bug  or  a  scandal  within  its  doors. 

Now,  on  this  filmy-soft  April  day  it  was  nonplussed.  A  type 
new  to  its  experience  was  applying  for  a  room,  and  Mrs.  Bras- 
hear,  who  was  not  only  the  proprietress,  but,  as  it  were,  the 
iamiliar  spirit  and  incarnation  of  the  institution,  sat  peering 
near-sightedly  and  in  some  perturbation  of  soul  at  the  phenome 
non.  He  was  young,  which  was  against  him,  and  of  a  winning 
directness  of  manner,  which  was  in  his  favor,  and  extremely 
good  to  look  at,  which  was  potential  of  complications,  and  en 
cased  in  clothing  of  an  uncompromising  cut  and  neutral  pattern 
(to  wit ;  No.  45  T  370,  "an  ideal  style  for  a  young  business  man 
of  affairs;  neat,  impressive  and  dignified"),  which  was  reassur 
ing. 


156  Success 

"My  name  is  Banneker,"  he  had  said,  immediately  the  dooi 
was  opened  to  him.  "Can  I  get  a  room  here?" 

"There  is  a  room  vacant,"  admitted  the  spirit  of  the  house 
unwillingly. 

"I'd  like  to  see  it." 

As  he  spoke,  he  was  mounting  the  stairs ;  she  must,  perforce, 
follow.  On  the  third  floor  she  passed  him  and  led  the  way  to  a 
small,  morosely  papered  front  room,  almost  glaringly  clean. 

"All  right,  if  I  can  have  a  work-table  in  it  and  if  it  isn't  too 
much,"  he  said,  after  one  comprehensive  glance  around. 

"The  price  is  five  dollars  a  week." 

Had  Banneker  but  known  it,  this  was  rather  high.  The  Bras- 
hear  rooming-house  charged  for  its  cleanliness,  physical  and 
moral.  "Can  I  move  in  at  once?"  he  inquired. 

"I  don't  know  you  nor  anything  about  you,  Mr.  Banneker," 
she  replied,  but  not  until  they  had  descended  the  stairs  and  were 
in  the  cool,  dim  parlor.  At  the  moment  of  speaking,  she  raised 
a  shade,  as  if  to  help  in  the  determination. 

"Is  that  necessary?  They  didn't  ask  me  when  I  registered  at 
the  hotel." 

Mrs.  Brashear  stared,  then  smiled.  "A  hotel  is  different. 
Where  are  you  stopping?" 

"At  the  St.  Denis." 

"A  very  nice  place.  Who  directed  you  here?" 

"No  one.  I  strolled  around  until  I  found  a  street  I  liked,  and 
looked  around  until  I  found  a  house  I  liked.  The  card  in  the 
window  — 

"Of  course.  Well,  Mr.  Banneker,  for  the  protection  of  the 
house  I  must  have  references." 

"References?  You  mean  letters  from  people?" 

"Not  necessarily.  Just  a  name  or  two  from  whom  I  can  make 
inquiries.  You  have  friends,  I  suppose." 

"No." 

"Your  family—" 

"I  haven't  any." 

"Then  the  people  in  the  place  where  you  work.  What  is  your 
business,  by  the  way  ?  " 


The  Vision  157 

"I  expect  to  go  on  a  newspaper." 

"Expect?"  Mrs.  Brashear  stiffened  in  defense  of  the  institu 
tion.  "You  have  no  place  yet?" 

He  answered  not  her  question,  but  her  doubt.  "As  far  as  that 
is  concerned,  I'll  pay  in  advance." 

"It  isn't  the  financial  consideration,"  she  began  loftily  — 
"alone,"  she  added  more  honestly.  "  But  to  take  in  a  total  stran 
ger-" 

Banneker  leaned  forward  to  her.  "See  here,  Mrs.  Brashear; 
there's  nothing  wrong  about  me.  I  don't  get  drunk.  I  don't 
smoke  in  bed.  I'm  decent  of  habit  and  I'm  clean.  I've  got  money 
enough  to  carry  me.  Couldn't  you  take  me  on  my  say-so  ?  Look 
me  over." 

Though  it  was  delivered  with  entire  gravity,  the  speech  pro 
voked  a  tired  and  struggling  smile  on  the  landlady's  plain  fea 
tures.  She  looked. 

"Well?"  he  queried  pleasantly.  "What  do  you  think?  Will 
you  take  a  chance?" 

That  suppressed  motherliness  which,  embodying  the  unformu- 
lated  desire  to  look  after  and  care  for  others,  turns  so  many 
widows  to  taking  lodgers,  found  voice  in  Mrs.  Brashear's  reply : 

"  You've  had  a  spell  of  sickness,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"No,"  he  said,  a  little  sharply.  "Where  did  you  get  that 
idea?" 

"Your  eyes  look  hot." 

"I  haven't  been  sleeping  very  well.  That's  all." 

"Too  bad.  You've  had  a  loss,  maybe,"  she  ventured  sympa 
thetically. 

"A  loss?  No Yes.  You  might  call  it  a  loss.  You'll  take 

me,  then?" 

"You  can  move  in  right  away,"  said  Mrs.  Brashear  recklessly. 

So  the  Brashear  rooming-house  took  into  its  carefully  guarded 
interior  the  young  and  unknown  Mr.  Banneker  —  who  had  not 
been  sleeping  well.  Nor  did  he  seem  to  be  sleeping  well  in  his  new 
quarters,  since  his  light  was  to  be  seen  glowing  out  upon  the  quiet 
street  until  long  after  midnight ;  yet  he  was  usually  up  betimes, 
often  even  before  the  moving  spirit  of  the  house,  herself.  A  full 


158  Success 

week  had  he  been  there  before  his  fellow  lodgers,  self-constituted 
into  a  Committee  on  Membership,  took  his  case  under  considera 
tion  in  full  session  upon  the  front  steps.  None  had  had  speech 
with  him,  but  it  was  known  that  he  kept  irregular  hours. 

"What's  his  job  :  that's  what  I'd  like  to  know,"  demanded  in  a 
tone  of  challenge,  young  Wickert,  a  man  of  the  world  who  clerked 
in  the  decorative  department  of  a  near-by  emporium. 

"Newsboy,  I  guess,"  said  Lambert,  the  belated  art-student  of 
thirty-odd  with  a  grin.  "He's  always  got  his  arms  full  of  papers 
when  he  comes  in." 

"And  he  sits  at  his  table  clipping  pieces  out  of  them  and 
arranging  them  in  piles,"  volunteered  little  Mrs.  Bolles,  the 
trained  nurse  on  the  top  floor.  "I've  seen  him  as  I  go  past." 

"Help-wanted  ads,"  suggested  Wickert,  who  had  suffered 
experience  in  that  will-o'-the-wisp  chase. 

"Then  he  hasn't  got  a  job,"  deduced  Mr.  Hainer,  a  heavy 
man  of  heavy  voice  and  heavy  manner,  middle-aged,  a  small- 
salaried  accountant. 

"Maybe  he's  got  money,"  suggested  Lambert. 

"Or  maybe  he's  a  dead  beat ;  he  looks  on  the  queer,"  opined 
young  Wickert. 

"He  has  a  very  fine  and  sensitive  face.  I  think  he  has  been 
ill."  The  opinion  came  from  a  thin,  quietly  dressed  woman  of  the 
early  worn-out  period  o.  life,  who  sat  a  little  apart  from  the 
others.  Young  Wickert  started  a  sniff,  but  suppressed  it,  for 
Miss  Westlake  was  held  locally  in  some  degree  of  respect,  as 
being  "well-connected"  and  having  relatives  who  called  on  her 
in  their  own  limousines,  though  seldom. 

"Anybody  know  his  name?"  asked  Lambert. 

"Barnacle,"  said  young  Wickert  wittily.  "Something  like 
that,  anyway.  Bannsocker,  maybe.  Guess  he's  some  sort  of  a 
Swede." 

"Well,  I  only  hope  he  doesn't  clear  out  some  night  with  his 
trunk  on  his  back  and  leave  poor  Mrs.  Brashear  to  whistle," 
declared  Mrs.  Bolles  piously. 

The  worn  face  of  the  landlady,  with  its  air  of  dispirited  mother- 
liness,  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "  Mr.  Banneker  is  a  gentleman" 
she  said. 


The  Vision  159 


"Gentleman"  from  Mrs.  Brashear,  with  that  intonation, 
meant  one  who,  out  of  or  in  a  job,  paid  his  room  rent.  The  new 
lodger  had  earned  the  title  by  paying  his  month  in  advance. 
Having  settled  that  point,  she  withdrew,  followed  by  the  two 
other  women.  Lambert,  taking  a  floppy  hat  from  the  walnut 
rack  in  the  hall,  went  his  way,  leaving  young  Wickert  and  Mr. 
Hainer  to  support  the  discussion,  which  they  did  in  tones  less 
discreet  than  the  darkness  warranted. 

11  Where  would  he  hail  from,  would  you  think?"  queried  the 
elder.  "Iowa,  maybe?  Or  Ar&msas?" 

"Search  me,"  answered  young  Wickert.  "But  it  was  a  small 
town  carpenter  built  those  honest-to-Gawd  clothes.  I'd  say  the 
corn-belt." 

"Dressed  up  for  the  monthly  meeting  of  the  Farmers'  Alli 
ance,  all  but  the  oil  on  his  hair.  He  forgot  that,"  chuckled  the 
accountant. 

"He's  got  a  fine  chance  in  Nuh  Yawk  —  of  buying  a  gold 
brick  cheap,"  prophesied  the  worldly  Wickert  out  of  the  depths 
of  his  metropolitan  experience.  "Somebody  ought  to  put  him 
onto  himself." 

A  voice  from  the  darkened  window  above  said,  with  com 
posure,  "That  will  be  all  right.  I'll  apply  to  you  for  advice." 

"Oh,  Gee!"  whispered  young  Wickert,  in  appeal  to  his  com 
panion.  "How  long's  he  been  there?" 

Acute  hearing,  it  appeared,  was  an  attribute  of  the  man  above, 
for  he  answered  at  once : 

"  Just  put  my  head  out  for  a  breath  of  air  when  I  heard  your 
kind  expressions  of  solicitude.  Why?  Did  I  miss  something 
that  came  earlier?" 

Mr.  Hainer  melted  unostentatiously  into  the  darkness. 
While  young  Wickert  was  debating  whether  his  pride  would 
allow  him  to  follow  this  prudent  example,  the  subject  of  their 
over-frank  discussion  appeared  at  his  elbow.  Evidently  he  was 
as  light  of  foot  as  he  was  quick  of  ear.  Meditating  briefly  upon 
these  physical  qualities,  young  Wickert  said,  in  a  deprecatory 
tone : 

"We  didn't  mean  to  get  fresh  with  you.  It  was  just  talk." 

"Very  interesting  talk." 


160  Success 

Wickert  produced  a  suspiciously  jeweled  case.  "Have  a 
cigarette?" 

"I  have  some  of  my  own,  thank  you." 

"Give  you  a  light?" 

The  metropolitan  worldling  struck  a  match  and  held  it  up. 
This  was  on  the  order  of  strategy.  He  wished  to  see  Banneker's 
face.  To  his  relief  it  did  not  look  angry  or  even  stern.  Rather, 
it  appeared  thoughtful.  Banneker  was  considering  impartially 
the  matter  of  his  apparel. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  my  clothes?"  he  asked. 

"Why  —  well,"  began  Wickert,  unhappy  and  fumbling  with 
his  ideas ;  "Oh,  they're  all  right." 

'For  a  meeting  of  the  Farmers'  Alliance."  Banneker  was 
smiling  good-naturedly.  "  But  for  the  East  ?" 

"Well,  if  you  really  want  to  know,"  began  Wickert  doubtfully. 
"If  you  won't  get  sore—  "  Banneker  nodded  his  assurance. — 
"Well,  they're  jay.  No  style.  No  snap.  Respectable,  and  that 
lets  'em  out." 

"  They  don't  look  as  if  they  were  made  in  New  York  or  for 
New  York?" 

Young  Mr.  Wickert  apportioned  his  voice  equitably  between  a 
laugh  and  a  snort.  "No :  nor  in  Hoboken  !"  he  retorted.  "Lis 
ten,  'bo,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  thought.  "You  got  to  have 
a  smooth  shell  in  Nuh  Yawk.  The  human  eye  only  sees  the 
surface.  Get  me?  And  it  judges  by  the  surface."  He  smoothed 
his  hands  down  his  dapper  trunk  with  ineffable  complacency. 
"Thirty-eight  dollars,  this.  Bernholz  Brothers,  around  on  Broad 
way.  Look  it  over.  That's  a  cut !" 

"Is  that  how  they're  making  them  in  the  East?"  doubtfully 
asked  the  neophyte,  reflecting  that  the  pinched-in  snugness  of 
the  coat,  and  the  flare  effect  of  the  skirts,  while  unquestionably 
more  impressive  than  his  own  box-like  garb,  still  lacked  some 
thing  of  the  quiet  distinction  which  he  recalled  in  the  clothes 
of  Herbert  Cressey.  The  thought  of  that  willing  messenger  set 
him  to  groping  for  another  sartorial  name.  He  hardly  heard 
Wickert  say  proudly : 

"If  Bernholz's  makes  'em  that  way,  you  can  bet  it's  up  to  the 


The  Vision  161 

split-second  of  date,  and  maybe  they  beat  the  pistol  by  a  jump. 
I  bluffed  for  a  raise  of  five  dollars,  on  the  strength  of  this  outfit, 
and  got  it  off  the  bat.  There's  the  suit  paid  for  in  two  months 
and  a  pair  of  shoes  over."  He  thrust  out  a  leg,  from  below  the 
sharp-pressed  trouser-line  of  which  protruded  a  boot  trimmed  in 
a  sort  of  bizarre  fretwork.  "Like  me  to  take  you  around  to 
Bernholz's?" 

Banneker  shook  his  head.  The  name  for  which  he  sought  had 
come  to  him.  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  Mertoun,  somewhere  on 
Fifth  Avenue?" 

"Yes.  And  I've  seen  Central  Park  and  the  Statue  of  Liberty," 
railed  the  other.  "Thinkin'  of  patternizing  Mertoun,  was  you? " 

"Yes,  I'd  like  to." 

"Like  to !  There's  a  party  at  the  Astorbilt's  to-morrow  night ; 
you'd  like  to  go  to  that,  wouldn't  you?  Fat  chance!"  said  the 
disdainful  and  seasoned  cit.  "D'you  know  what  Mertoun  would 
do  to  you?  Set  you  back  a  hundred  simoleons  soon  as  look  at 
you.  And  at  that  you  got  to  have  a  letter  of  introduction  like 
gettin'  in  to  see  the  President  of  the  United  States  or  John  D. 
Rockefeller.  Come  off,  my  boy!  Bernholz's  '11  fix  you  just  as 
good,  all  but  the  label.  Better  come  around  to-morrow." 

"Much  obliged,  but  I'm  not  buying  yet.  Where  would  you 
say  a  fellow  would  have  a  chance  to  see  the  best-dressed  men?" 

Young  Mr.  Wickert  looked  at  once  self-conscious  and  a  trifle 
miffed,  for  in  his  own  set  he  was  regarded  as  quite  the  mould  of 
fashion.  "Oh,  well,  if  you  want  to  pipe  off  the  guys  that  think 
they're  the  whole  thing,  walk  up  the  Avenue  and  watch  the  doors 
of  the  clubs  and  the  swell  restaurants.  At  that,  they  haven't  got 
anything  on  some  fellows  that  don't  spend  a  quarter  of  the 
money,  but  know  what's  what  and  don't  let  grafters  like  Mer 
toun  pull  their  legs,"  said  he.  "  Say,  you  seem  to  know  what  you 
want,  all  right,  all  right,"  he  added  enviously.  "You  ain't  goin' 
to  let  this  little  old  town  bluff  you ;  ay  ?  " 

"  No.  Not  for  lack  of  a  few  clothes.  Good-night,"  replied  Ban 
neker,  leaving  in  young  Wickert's  mind  the  impression  that  he 
was  "a  queer  gink,"  but  also,  on  the  whole,  "a  good  guy."  For 
the  worldling  was  only  small,  not  mean  of  spirit. 


162  Success 

Banneker  might  have  added  that  one  who  had  once  known 
cities  and  the  hearts  of  men  from  the  viewpoint  of  that  modern 
incarnation  of  Ulysses,  the  hobo,  contemptuous  and  predatory, 
was  little  likely  to  be  overawed  by  the  most  teeming  and  head 
long  of  human  ant-heaps.  Having  joined  the  ant-heap,  Banneker 
was  shrewdly  concerned  with  the  problem  of  conforming  to  the 
best  type  of  termite  discoverable.  The  gibes  of  the  doorstep 
chatterers  had  not  aroused  any  new  ambition ;  they  had  merely 
given  point  to  a  purpose  deferred  because  of  other  and  more 
immediate  pressure.  Already  he  had  received  from  Camilla  Van 
Arsdale  a  letter  rich  in  suggestion,  hint,  and  subtly  indicated 
advice,  with  this  one  passage  of  frank  counsel : 

If  I  were  writing,  spinster-aunt-wise,  to  any  one  else  in  your  posi 
tion,  I  should  be  tempted  to  moralize  and  issue  warnings  about  — 
well,  about  the  things  of  the  spirit.  But  you  are  equipped,  there.  Like 
the  " Master,"  you  will  "go  your  own  way  with  inevitable  motion." 
With  the  outer  man  —  that  is  different.  You  have  never  given  much 
thought  to  that  phase.  And  you  have  an  asset  in  your  personal  ap 
pearance.  I  should  not  be  telling  you  this  if  I  thought  there  were 
danger  of  your  becoming  vain.  But  I  really  think  it  would  be  a  good 
investment  for  you  to  put  yourself  into  the  hands  of  a  first-class  tailor, 
and  follow  his  advice,  in  moderation,  of  course.  Get  the  sense  of  being 
fittingly  turned  out  by  going  where  there  are  well-dressed  people; 
to  the  opera,  perhaps,  and  the  theater  occasionally,  and,  when  you  can 
afford  it,  to  a  good  restaurant.  Unless  the  world  has  changed,  people 
will  look  at  you.  But  you  must  not  know  it.  Important,  this  is!. .  .1 
could,  of  course,  give  you  letters  of  introduction.  "Les  morts  vont  vite," 
it  is  true,  and  I  am  dead  to  that  world,  not  wholly  without  the  long 
ings  of  a  would-be  revenant;  but  a  ghost  may  still  claim  some  privileges 
of  memory,  and  my  friends  would  be  hospitable  to  you.  Only,  I 
strongly  suspect  that  you  would  not  use  the  letters  if  I  gave  them. 
You  prefer  to  make  your  own  start;  isn't  it  so?  Well;  I  have  written 
to  a  few.  Sooner  or  later  you  will  meet  with  them.  Those  things  al 
ways  happen  even  in  New  York Be  sure  to  write  me  all  about  the 

job  when  you  get  it  — 

Prudence  dictated  that  he  should  be  earning  something  before 
he  invested  in  expensive  apparel,  be  it  never  so  desirable  and 
important.  However,  lie  would  outfit  himself  just  as  soon  as  a 


The  Vision  163 

regular  earning  capacity  justified  his  going  into  his  carefully 
husbanded  but  dwindling  savings.  He  pictured  himself  clad  as  a 
lily  of  the  field,  unconscious  of  perfection  as  Herbert  Cressey 
himself,  in  the  public  haunts  of  fashion  and  ease ;  through  which 
vision  there  rose  the  searing  prospect  of  thus  encountering  lo 
Welland.  What  was  her  married  name  ?  He  had  not  even  asked 
when  the  news  was  broken  to  him ;  had  not  wanted  to  ask ;  was 
done  with  all  that  for  all  time. 

He  was  still  pathetically  young  and  inexperienced.  And  he 
had  been  badly  hurt. 


CHAPTER  II 

DUST  was  the  conspicuous  attribute  of  the  place.  It  lay,  flat  and 
toneless,  upon  the  desk,  the  chairs,  the  floor;  it  streaked  the 
walls.  The  semi- consumptive  office  "boy's"  middle-aged  shoul 
ders  collected  it.  It  stirred  in  the  wake  of  quiet-moving  men, 
mostly  under  thirty-five,  who  entered  the  outer  door,  passed 
through  the  waiting-room,  and  disappeared  behind  a  partition. 
Banneker  felt  like  shaking  himself  lest  he  should  be  eventually 
buried  under  its  impalpable  sifting.  Two  hours  and  a  half  had 
passed  since  he  had  sent  in  his  name  on  a  slip  of  paper,  to  Mr. 
Gordon,  managing  editor  of  the  paper.  On  the  way  across  Park 
Row  he  had  all  but  been  persuaded  by  a  lightning  printer  on  the 
curb  to  have  a  dozen  tasty  and  elegant  visiting-cards  struck  off, 
for  a  quarter ;  but  some  vague  inhibition  of  good  taste  checked 
him.  Now  he  wondered  if  a  card  would  have  served  better. 

While  he  waited,  he  checked  up  the  actuality  of  a  metropolitan 
newspaper  entrance-room,  as  contrasted  with  his  notion  of  it, 
derived  from  motion  pictures.  Here  was  none  of  the  bustle  and 
hurry  of  the  screen.  No  brisk  and  earnest  young  figures  with 
tense  eyes  and  protruding  notebooks  darted  feverishly  in  and 
out ;  nor,  in  the  course  of  his  long  wait,  had  he  seen  so  much  as 
one  specimen  of  that  invariable  concomitant  of  all^creen  journal 
ism,  the  long-haired  poet  with  his  flowing  tie  and  neatly  ribboned 
manuscript.  Even  the  office  "boy,"  lethargic,  neutrally  polite, 
busy  writing  on  half-sheets  of  paper,  was  profoundly  untrue  to 
the  pictured  type.  Banneker  wondered  what  the  managing  editor 
would  be  like ;  would  almost,  in  the  wreckage  of  his  preconceived 
notions,  have  accepted  a  woman  or  a  priest  in  that  manifestation, 
when  Mr,  Gordon  appeared  and  was  addressed  by  name  by  the 
hollow-chested  Cerberus.  Banneker  at  once  echoed  the  name, 
rising. 

The  managing  editor,  a  tall,  heavy  man,  whose  smoothly 
fitting  cutaway  coat  seemed  miraculously  to  have  escaped  the 
plague  of  dust,  stared  at  him  above  heavy  glasses. 


The  Vision  165 

"  You  want  to  see  me?" 

"Yes.  I  sent  in  my  name." 

" Did  you?  When?" 

"  At  two-forty-seven,  thirty,"  replied  the  visitor  with  railroad 
accuracy. 

The  look  above  the  lowered  glasses  became  slightly  quizzical. 
"You're  exact,  at  least.  Patient,  too.  Good  qualities  for  a  news 
paper  man.  That's  what  you  are?" 

"What  I'm  going  to  be,"  amended  Eanneker. 

"There  is  no  opening  here  at  present." 

"That's  formula,  isn't  it  ?"  asked  the  young  man,  smiling. 

The  other  stared.  "It  is.  But  how  do  you  know?" 

"  It's  the  tone,  I  suppose.  I've  had  to  use  it  a  good  deal  myself, 
in  railroading." 

"Observant,  as  well  as  exact  and  patient.  Come  in.  I'm  sorry 
I  misplaced  your  card.  The  name  is  — ?" 

"Banneker,  E.  Banneker." 

Following  the  editor,  he  passed  through  a  large,  low-ceilinged 
room,  filled  with  desk-tables,  each  bearing  a  heavy  crystal 
inkwell  full  of  a  fluid  of  particularly  virulent  purple.  A  short 
figure,  impassive  as  a  Mongol,  sat  at  a  corner  desk,  gazing  out 
over  City  Hall  Park  with  a  rapt  gaze.  Across  from  him  a  curi 
ously  trim  and  graceful  man,  with  a  strong  touch  of  the  Hiber 
nian  in  his  elongated  jaw  and  humorous  gray  eyes,  clipped  the 
early  evening  editions  with  an  effect  of  highly  judicious  selec 
tion.  Only  one  person  sat  in  all  the  long  files  of  the  work-tables, 
littered  with  copy-paper  and  disarranged  newspapers;  a  dark 
young  giant  with  the  discouraged  and  hurt  look  of  a  boy  kept  in 
after  school.  All  this  Banneker  took  in  while  the  managing  edi 
tor  was  disposing,  usually  with  a  single  penciled  word  or  number, 
of  a  sheaf  of  telegraphic  "queries"  left  upon  his  desk.  Having 
finished,  he  swiveled  in  his  chair,  to  face  Banneker,  and,  as  he 
spoke,  kept  bouncing  the  thin  point  of  a  letter-opener  from  the 
knuckles  of  his  left  hand.  His  hands  were  fat  and  nervous. 

"So  you  want  to  do  newspaper  work?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 


166  Success 


"I  think  I  can  make  a  go  of  it." 

' 'Any  experience?" 

"None  to  speak  of.  I've  written  a  few  things.  I  thought  you 
might  remember  my  name." 

"Your  name?  Banneker?  No.  Why  should  I?" 

"You  published  some  of  my  things  in  the  Sunday  edition, 
lately.  From  Manzanita,  California." 

"No.  I  don't  think  so.  Mr.  Romans."  A  graying  man  with 
the  gait  of  a  marionnette  and  the  precise  expression  of  a  rocking- 
horse,  who  had  just  entered,  crossed  over.  "Have  we  sent  out 
any  checks  to  a  Mr.  Banneker  recently,  in  California?" 

The  new  arrival,  who  was  copy-reader  and  editorial  selecter 
for  the  Sunday  edition,  repeated  the  name  in  just  such  a  wooden 
voice  as  was  to  be  expected.  "No,"  he  said  positively. 

"But  I've  cashed  the  checks,"  returned  Banneker,  annoyed 
and  bewildered.  "And  I've  seen  the  clipping  of  the  article  in 
the  Sunday  Sphere  of  - 

"Just  a  moment.  You're  not  in  The  Sphere  office.  Did  you 
think  you  were?  Some  one  has  directed  you  wrong.  This  is 
The  Ledger." 

"Oh!"  said  Banneker.  "It  was  a  policeman  that  pointed  it 
out.  I  suppose  I  saw  wrong."  He  paused ;  then  looked  up  in 
genuously.  "But,  anyway,  I'd  rather  be  on  The  Ledger." 

Mr.  Gordon  smiled  broadly,  the  thin  blade  poised  over  a 
plump,  reddened  knuckle. 

"Would  you!  Now,  why?" 

"I've  been  reading  it.  I  like  the  way  it  does  things.' 

The  editor  laughed  outright.  "If  you  didn't  look  so  honest, 
I  would  think  that  somebody  of  experience  had  been  tutoring 
you.  How  many  other  places  have  you  tried?" 

"None." 

"You  were  going  to  The  Sphere  first?  On  the  promise  of  a 
job?" 

"No.  Because  they  printed  what  I  wrote." 

"The  Sphere's  ways  are  not  our  ways,"  pronounced  Mr. 
Gordon  primly.  "It's  a  fundamental  difference  in  standards." 

"I  can  see  that." 


The  Vision  167 

"Oh,  you  can,  can  you?"  chuckled  the  other.  "But  it's  true 
that  we  have  no  opening  here." 

(The  Ledger  never  did  have  an  "opening" ;  but  it  managed  to 
wedge  in  a  goodly  number  of  neophytes,  from  year  to  year, 
ninety  per  cent  of  whom  were  automatically  and  courteously 
ejected  after  due  trial.  Mr.  Gordon  performed  a  surpassing 
rataplan  upon  his  long-suffering  thumb-joint  and  wondered  if 
this  queer  and  direct  being  might  qualify  among  the  redeemable 
ten  per  cent.) 

"I  can  wait."  (They  often  said  that.)  "For  a  while,"  added 
the  youth  thoughtfully. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  New  York?" 

"Thirty-three  days." 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Reading  newspapers." 

"No!  Reading  —  That's  rather  surprising.  All  of  them?" 

"All  that  I  could  manage." 

"Some  were  so  bad  that  you  couldn't  worry  through  them, 
eh?"  asked  the  other  with  appreciation. 

"Not  that.  But  I  didn't  know  the  foreign  languages  except 
French,  and  Spanish,  and  a  little  Italian." 

"The  foreign-language  press,  too.  Remarkable!"  murmured 
the  other.  "Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  your  idea  was?" 

"It  was  simple  enough.  As  I  wanted  to  get  on  a  newspaper,  I 
thought  I  ought  to  find  out  what  newspapers  were  made  of." 

"  Simple,  as  you  say.  Beautifully  simple !  So  you've  devised 
for  yourself  the  little  job  of  perfecting  yourself  in  every  depart 
ment  of  journalism ;  politics,  finances,  criminal,  sports,  society ; 
all  of  them,  eh?" 

"No;  not  all,"  replied  Banneker. 

"Not?  What  have  you  left  out?" 

"Society  news"  was  the  answer,  delivered  less  promptly  than 
the  other  replies. 

Bestowing  a  twinkle  of  mingled  amusement  and  conjecture 
upon  the  applicant's  clothing,  Mr.  Gordon  said : 

"You  don't  approve  of  our  social  records?  Or  you're  not  in 
terested  ?  Or  why  is  it  that  you  neglect  this  popular  branch  ?  " 


168  Success 

/ 

"Personal  reasons." 

This  reply,  which  took  the  managing  editor  somewhat  aback, 
was  accurate  if  not  explanatory.  Miss  Van  Arsdale's  commenta 
ries  upon  Gardner  and  his  quest  had  inspired  Banneker  with  a 
contemptuous  distaste  for  this  type  of  journalism.  But  chiefly 
he  had  shunned  the  society  columns  from  dread  of  rinding  there 
some  mention  of  her  who  had  been  lo  Welland.  He  was  resolved 
to  conquer  and  evict  that  memory ;  he  would  not  consciously  put 
himself  in  the  way  of  anything  that  recalled  it. 

"Hum!  And  this  notion  of  making  an  intensive  study  of  the 
papers;  was  that  original  with  you?" 

"Well,  no,  not  entirely.  I  got  it  from  a  man  who  made  himself 
a  bank  president  in  seven  years." 

"Yes?  How  did  he  do  that?" 

"He  started  by  reading  everything  he  could  find  about  money 
and  coinage  and  stocks  and  bonds  and  other  financial  paper.  He 
told  me  that  it  was  incredible  the  things  that  financial  experts 
didn't  know  about  their  own  business  —  the  deep-down  things — • 
and  that  he  guessed  it  was  so  with  any  business.  He  got  on  top 
by  really  knowing  the  things  that  everybody  was  supposed  to 
know." 

"A  sound  theory,  I  dare  say.  Most  financiers  aren't  so  re 
vealing." 

"He  and  I  were  padding  the  hoof  together.  We  were  both 
hoboes  then." 

The  managing  editor  looked  up,  alert,  from  his  knuckle- 
tapping.  "From  bank  president  to  hobo.  Was  his  bank  an  im 
portant  one?" 

"The  biggest  in  a  medium-sized  city." 

"And  does  that  suggest  nothing  to  you,  as  a  prospective  news 
paper  man?" 

"What?  Write  him  up?" 

"It  would  make  a  fairly  sensational  story." 

"I  couldn't  do  that.  He  was  my  friend.  He  wouldn't  like  it." 

Mr.  Gordon  addressed  his  wedding-ring  finger  which  was  look 
ing  a  bit  scarified.  "Such  an  article  as  that,  properly  done, 
would  go  a  long  way  toward  getting  you  a  chance  on  this  paper — 
Sit  down,  Mr.  Banneker." 


The  Vision  169 

"You  and  I,"  said  Banneker  slowly  and  in  the  manner  of  the 
West,  "can't  deal." 

"Yes,  we  can."  The  managing  editor  threw  his  steel  blade  on 
the  desk.  "Sit  down,  I  tell  you.  And  understand  this.  If  you 
come  on  this  paper  —  I'm  going  to  turn  you  over  to  Mr.  Green- 
ough,  the  city  editor,  with  a  request  that  he  give  you  a  trial  — 
you'll  be  expected  to  subordinate  every  personal  interest  and 
advantage  to  the  interests  and  advantages  of  the  paper,  except 
your  sense  of  honor  and  fair-play.  We  don't  ask  you  to  give 
that  up ;  and  if  you  do  give  it  up,  we  don't  want  you  at  all. 
What  have  you  done  besides  be  a  hobo?" 

"Railroading.  Station-agent." 

"Where  were  you  educated?" 

"Nowhere.  Wherever  I  could  pick  it  up." 

"Which  means  everywhere.  Ever  read  George  Borrow?" 

"Yes." 

The  heavy  face  of  Mr.  Gordon  lighted  up.  "  Ree-markable ! 
Keep  on.  He's  a  good  offset  to  —  to  the  daily  papers.  Writing 
still  counts,  on  The  Ledger.  Come  over  and  meet  Mr.  Green- 
ough." 

The  city  editor  unobtrusively  studied  Banneker  out  of  placid, 
inscrutable  eyes,  soft  as  a  dove's,  while  he  chatted  at  large 
about  theaters,  politics,  the  news  of  the  day.  Afterward  the 
applicant  met  the  Celtic  assistant,  Mr.  Mallory,  who  broadly 
outlined  for  him  the  technique  of  the  office.  With  no  further 
preliminaries  Banneker  found  himself  employed  at  fifteen  dollars 
a  week,  with  Monday  for  his  day  of?  and  directions  to  report  on 
the  first  of  the  month. 

As  the  day-desk  staff  was  about  departing  at  six  o'clock,  Mr. 
Gordon  sauntered  over  to  the  city  desk  looking  mildly  apolo 
getic. 

"I  practically  had  to  take  that  young  desert  antelope  on," 
said  he. 

"Too  ingenuous  to  turn  down,"  surmised  the  city  editor. 

"Ingenuous !  He's  heir  to  the  wisdom  of  the  ages.  And  now 
I'm  afraid  I've  made  a  ghastly  mi, take." 

"Something  wrong  with  him?" 

"I've  had  his  stuff  in  the  Sunday  Sphere  looked  up." 


170  Success 

" Pretty  weird?"  put  in  Mallory,  gliding  into  his  beautifully 
fitting  overcoat. 

"  So  damned  good  that  I  don't  see  how  The  Sphere  ever  came 
to  take  it.  Greenough,  you'll  have  to  find  some  pretext  for  firing 
that  young  phenomenon  as  soon  as  possible." 

Perfectly  comprehending  his  superior's  mode  of  indirect  ex 
pression  the  city  editor  replied : 

"  You  think  so  highly  of  him  as  that?" 

"Not  one  of  our  jobs  will  be  safe  from  him  if  he  once  gets  his 
foot  planted,"  prophesied  the  other  with  mock  ruefulness. 
"Do  you  know,"  he  added,  "I  never  even  asked  him  for  a 
reference." 

"You  don't  need  to,"  pronounced  Mallory,  shaking  the  last 
wrinkle  out  of  himself  and  lighting  the  cigarette  of  departure. 
"He's  got  it  in  his  face,  if  I'm  any  judge." 

Highly  elate,  Banneker  walked  on  springy  pavements  all  the 
way  to  Grove  Street.  Fifteen  a  week!  He  could  live  on  that. 
His  other  income  and  savings  could  be  devoted  to  carrying  out 
Miss  Camilla's  advice.  For  he  need  not  save  any  more.  He 
would  go  ahead,  fast,  now  that  he  had  got  his  start.  How  easy  it 
had  been. 

Entering  the  Brashear  door,  he  met  plain,  middle-aged  little 
Miss  Westlake.  A  muffler  was  pressed  to  her  jaw.  He  recalled 
having  heard  her  moving  about  her  room,  the  cheapest  and  least 
desirable  in  the  house,  and  groaning  softly  late  in  the  night; 
also  having  heard  some  lodgers  say  that  she  was  a  typist  with 
very  little  work.  Obviously  she  needed  a  dentist,  and  pre 
sumably  she  had  not  the  money  to  pay  his  fee.  In  the  exulta 
tion  of  his  good  luck,  Banneker  felt  a  stir  of  helpfulness  toward 
this  helpless  person. 

"Oh  !"  said  he.  "How  do  you  do !  Could  you  find  time  to  do 
some  typing  for  me  quite  soon?" 

It  was  said  impulsively  and  was  followed  by  a  surge  of  dismay. 
Typing  ?  Type  what  ?  He  had  absolutely  nothing  on  hand ! 

Well,  he  must  get  up  something.  At  once.  It  would  never  do 
to  disappoint  that  pathetic  and  eager  hope,  as  of  a  last-moment 
rescue,  expressed  in  the  little  spinster's  quick  flush  and  breath 
less,  thankful  affirmative. 


CHAPTER  III 

TEN  days*  leeway  before  entering  upon  the  new  work.  To  which 
of  scores  of  crowding  purposes  could  Banneker  best  put  the  time  ? 
In  his  offhand  way  the  instructive  Ma  lory  had  suggested  that  he 
familiarize  himself  with  the  topography  and  travel-routes  of  the 
Island  of  Manhattan.  Indef  atigably  he  set  about  doing  this ;  wan 
dering  from  water-front  to  water-front,  invading  tenements,  eat 
ing  at  queer,  Englishless  restaurants,  picking  up  chance  acquaint 
ance  with  chauffeurs,  peddlers,  street-fakers,  park-bench  loiterers ; 
all  that  drifting  and  iridescent  scum  of  life  which  variegates  the 
surface  above  the  depths.  Everywhere  he  was  accepted  without 
question,  for  his  old  experience  on  the  hoof  had  given  him  the  un- 
coded  password  which  loosens  the  speech  of  furtive  men  and  wise. 
A  receptivity,  sensitized  to  a  high  degree  bv  the  inspiration  of  new 
adventure,  absorbed  these  impressions.  The  faithful  pocket-ledger 
was  filling  rapidly  with  notes  and  phrases,  brisk  and  trenchant, 
set  down  with  no  specific  purpose ;  almost  mechanically,  in  fact, 
but  destined  to  future  uses.  Mallory,  himself  no  mean  connoisseur 
of  the  tumultuous  and  flagrant  city,  would  perhaps  have  found 
matter  foreign  to  his  expert  apprehension  could  he  have  seen  and 
translated  the  pages  of  3  T  9901. 

Banneker  would  go  forward  in  the  fascinating  paths  of  explora 
tion  ;  but  there  were  other  considerations. 

The  outer  man,  for  example.  The  inner  man,  too ;  the  con 
scious  inner  man  strengthened  upon  the  strong  milk  of  the 
philosophers,  the  priests,  and  the  prophets  so  strangely  mingled 
in  that  library  now  stored  with  Camilla  Van  Arsdale ;  exhilarated 
by  the  honey-dew  of  "The  Undying  Voices,"  of  Keats  and 
Shelley,  and  of  Swinburne's  supernal  rhythms,  which  he  had 
brought  with  him.  One  visit  to  the  Public  Library  had  quite 
appalled  him;  the  vast,  chill  orderliness  of  it.  He  had  gone 
there,  hungry  to  chat  about  books !  To  the  Public  Library  I 
Surely  a  Homeric  joke  for  grim,  tomish  officialdom.  But  tomish 
officialdom  had  not  even  laughed  at  him ;  it  was  too  official  to 
appreciate  the  quality  of  such  side-splitting  innocence Was 


172  Success 

he  likely  to  meet  a  like  irresponsiveness  when  he  should  seek 
clothing  for  the  body? 

Watch  the  clubs,  young  Wickert  had  advised.  Banneker 
strolled  up  Fifth  Avenue,  branching  off  here  and  there,  into 
the  more  promising  side  streets. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  First  Thirst;  the  institutions  which 
cater  to  this  and  subsequent  thirsts  drew  steadily  from  the  main 
stream  of  human  activity  flowing  past.  Many  gloriously  clad 
specimens  passed  in  and  out  of  the  portals,  socially  sacred  as  in 
the  quiet  Fifth  Avenue  clubs,  profane  as  in  the  roaring,  taxi- 
bordered  " athletic"  foundations;  but  there  seemed  to  the 
anxious  observer  no  keynote,  no  homogeneous  character  where- 
from  to  build  as  on  a  sure  foundation.  Lacking  knowledge,  his 
instinct  could  find  no  starting-point ;  he  was  bewildered  in  vision 
and  in  mind.  Just  off  the  corner  of  the  quietest  of  the  Forties,  he 
met  a  group  of  four  young  men,  walking  compactly  by  twos. 
The  one  nearest  him  in  the  second  line  was  Herbert  Cressey. 
His  heavy  and  rather  dull  eye  seemed  to  meet  Banneker's  as  they 
came  abreast.  Banneker  nodded,  half  checking  himself  in  his 
slow  walk. 

"How  are  you?"  he  said  with  an  accent  of  surprise  and 
pleasure. 

Cressey's  expressionless  face  turned  a  little.  There  was  no 
response  in  kind  to  Banneker's  smile. 

"Oh !  H'ware  you ! "  said  he  vaguely,  and  passed  on. 

Banneker  advanced  mechanically  until  he  reached  the  corner. 
There  he  stopped.  His  color  had  heightened.  The  smile  was  still 
on  his  lips ;  it  had  altered,  taken  on  a  quality  of  gameness.  He 
did  not  shake  his  fist  at  the  embodied  spirit  of  metropolitanism 
before  him,  as  had  a  famous  Gallic  precursor  of  his,  also  a  de 
termined  seeker  for  Success  in  a  lesser  sphere;  but  he  para 
phrased  Rastignac's  threat  in  his  own  terms. 

"I  reckon  I'll  have  to  lick  this  town  and  lick  it  good  before  it 
learns  to  be  friendly." 

A  hand  fell  on  his  arm.  He  turned  to  face  Cressey. 

"You're  the  feller  that  bossed  the  wreck  out  there  in  the  desert, 
aren't  you  ?  You're  —  lessee  —  Banneker." 


The  Vision  173 


"I  am."  The  tone  was  curt. 

"Awfully  sorry  I  didn't  spot  you  at  once."  Cressey's  genuine 
ness  was  a  sufficient  apology.  "  I'm  a  little  stuffy  to-day.  Bache 
lor  dinner  last  night.  What  are  you  doing  here?  Looking 
around?" 

"No.  I'm  living  here." 

"That  so?  So  am  I.  Come  into  my  club  and  let's  talk.  I'm 
glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Banneker." 

Even  had  Banneker  been  prone  to  self-consciousness,  which  he 
was  not,  the  extreme,  almost  monastic  plainness  of  the  small, 
neutral-fronted  building  to  which  the  other  led  him  would  have 
set  him  at  ease.  It  gave  no  inkling  of  its  unique  exclusiveness, 
and  equally  unique  expensiveness.  As  for  Cressey,  that  simple, 
direct,  and  confident  soul  took  not  the  smallest  account  of  Ban- 
neker's  standardized  clothing,  which  made  him  almost  as  con 
spicuous  in  that  environment  as  if  he  had  entered  clad  in  a 
wooden  packing-case.  Cressey's  creed  in  such  matters  was  com 
plete  ;  any  friend  of  his  was  good  enough  for  any  environment  to 
which  he  might  introduce  him,  and  any  other  friend  who  took 
exceptions  might  go  farther ! 

"Banzai !"  said  the  cheerful  host  over  his  cocktail.  "Welcome 
to  our  city.  Hope  you  like  it." 

"I  do,"  said  Banneker,  lifting  his  glass  in  response. 

"Where  are  you  living?" 

;"  Grove  Street." 

Cressey  knit  his  brows.  "Where's  that?  Harlem?" 

"No.  Over  west  of  Sixth  Avenue." 

"  Queer  kind  of  place  to  live,  ain't  it  ?  There's  a  corkin'  little 
suite  vacant  over  at  the  Regalton.  Cheap  at  the  money.  Oh  !-er- 
I-er-maybe  — 

"Yes;  that's  it,"  smiled  Banneker.  "The  treasury  isn't  up  to 
bachelor  suites,  yet  awhile.  I've  only  just  got  a  job." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Newspaper  work.  The  Morning  Ledger." 

"  Reporting  ?  "  A  dubious  expression  clouded  the  candid  cheer 
fulness  of  the  other's  face. 

"Yes.  What's  the  matter  with  that?" 


174  Success 

"Oh ;  I  dunno.  It's  a  piffling  sort  of  job,  ain't  it?" 

"Piffling?  How  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  I  supposed  you  had  to  ask  a  lot  of  questions  and  pry 
into  other  people's  business  and  —  and  all  that  sorta  thing." 

"If  nobody  asked  questions,"  pointed  out  Banneker,  remem 
bering  Gardner's  resolute  devotion  to  his  professional  ideals, 
"there  wouldn't  be  any  news,  would  there?" 

"Sure!  That's  right,"  agreed  the  gilded  youth.  "The  Ledger's 
the  decentest  paper  in  town,  too.  It's  a  gentleman's  paper.  I 
know  a  feller  on  it ;  Guy  Mallory ;  was  in  my  class  at  college. 
Give  you  a  letter  to  him  if  you  like." 

Informed  that  Banneker  already  knew  Mr.  Mallory,  his  host 
expressed  the  hope  of  being  useful  to  him  in  any  other  possible 
manner  —  "any  tips  I  can  give  you  or  anything  of  that  sort,  old 
chap?" — so  heartily  that  the  newcomer  broached  the  subject 
of  clothes. 

"Nothin'  easier,"  was  the  ready  response.  "I'll  take  you  right 
down  to  Mertoun.  Just  one  more  and  we're  off." 

The  one  more  having  been  disposed  of :  "What  is  it  you  want  ?  " 
inquired  Cressey,  when  they  were  settled  in  the  taxi  which  was 
waiting  at  the  club  door  for  them. 

"Well,  what  do  I  want?  You  tell  me." 

"How  far  do  you  want  to  go?  Will  five  hundred  be  too 
much?" 

"No." 

Cressey  lost  himself  in  mental  calculations  out  of  which  he 
presently  delivered  himself  to  this  effect : 

"Evening  clothes,  of  course.  And  a  dinner-jacket  suit.  Two 
business  suits,  a  light  and  a  dark.  You  won't  need  a  morning 
coat,  I  expect,  for  a  while.  Anyway,  we've  got  to  save  somethin' 
out  for  shirts  and  boots,  haven't  we?" 

"I  haven't  the  money  with  me"  remarked  Banneker,  his  inno 
cent  mind  on  the  cash-with-order  policy  of  Sears-Roebuck. 

"  Now,  see  here,"  said  Cressey,  good-humoredly,  yet  with  an 
effect  of  authority.  "This  is  a  game  that's  got  to  be  played  ac 
cording  to  the  rules.  Why,  if  you  put  down  spot  cash  before 
Mertoun's  eyes  he'd  faint  from  surprise,  and  when  he  came  to, 


The  Vision  175 

he'd  have  no  respect  for  you.  And  a  tailor's  respect  for  you," 
continued  Cressey,  the  sage,  "  shows  in  your  togs." 

"When  do  I  pay,  then?" 

"Oh,  in  three  or  four  months  he  sends  around  a  bill.  That's 
more  of  a  reminder  to  come  in  and  order  your  fall  outfit  than  it  is 
anything  else.  But  you  can  send  him  a  check  on  account,  if  you 
feel  like  it." 

"A  check?"  repeated  the  neophyte  blankly.  "Must  I  have  a 
bank  account?" 

"Safer  than  a  sock,  my  boy.  And  just  as  simple.  To-morrow 
will  do  for  that,  when  we  call  on  the  shirtmakers  and  the  shoe 
sharps.  I'll  put  you  in  my  bank;  they'll  take  you  on  for  five 
hundred." 

Arrived  at  Mertoun's,  Banneker  unobtrusively  but  positively 
developed  a  taste  of  his  own  in  the  matter  of  hue  and  pattern ; 
one,  too,  which  commanded  Cressey's  respect.  The  gilded 
youth's  judgment  tended  toward  the  more  pronounced  herring 
bones  and  homespuns. 

"  All  right  for  you,  who  can  change  seven  days  in  the  week ; 
but  I've  got  to  live  with  these  clothes,  day  in  and  day  out," 
argued  Banneker. 

To  which  Cressey  deferred,  though  with  a  sigh.  "You  could 
carry  off  those  sporty  things  as  if  they  were  woven  to  order  for 
you,"  he  declared.  "You've  got  the  figure,  the  carriage,  the — • 
the  whatever- the-devil  it  is,  for  it." 

Prospectively  poorer  by  something  more  than  four  hundred 
dollars,  Banneker  emerged  from  Mertoun's  with  his  mentor. 

"  Gotta  get  home  and  dress  for  a  rotten  dinner,"  announced 
that  gentleman  cheerfully.  "Duck  in  here  with  me,"  he  invited, 
indicating  a  sumptuous  bar,  near  the  tailor's,  "and  get  another 
little  kick  in  the  stomach.  No?  Oh,  verrawell.  Where  are  you 
for?" 

"The  Public  Library." 

"Gawd!"  said  his  companion,  honestly  shocked.  "That's  a 
gloomy  hole,  ain't  it?" 

"Not  so  bad,  when  you  get  used  to  it.  I've  been  putting  in 
three  hours  a  day  there  lately." 


176  Success 

"Whatever  for?" 

"Oh,  browsing.  Book-hungry,  I  suppose.  Carnegie  hasn't  dis 
covered  Manzanita  yet,  you  know ;  so  I  haven't  had  many  library 
opportunities." 

"Speaking  of  Manzanita,"  remarked  Cressey,  and  spoke  of  it, 
reminiscently  and  at  length,  as  they  walked  along  together. 
"  Did  the  lovely  and  mysterious  I.  O.  W.  ever  turn  up  and  report 
herself?" 

Banneker's  breath  caught  painfully  in  his  throat. 

"  D'you  know  who  she  was  ?  "  pursued  the  other,  without  pause 
for  reply  to  his  previous  question ;  and  still  without  intermission 
continued:  "lo  Welland.  That's  who  she  was.  Oh,  but  she's  a 
hummer !  I've  met  her  since.  Married,  you  know.  Quick  work, 
that  marriage.  There  was  a  dam'  queer  story  whispered  around 
about  her  starting  to  elope  with  some  other  chap,  and  his  going 
nearly  batty  because  she  didn't  turn  up,  and  all  the  time  she 
was  wandering  around  in  the  desert  until  somebody  picked  her 
up  and  took  care  of  her.  You  ought  to  know  something  of  that. 
It  was  supposed  to  be  right  in  your  back-yard." 

"I?"  said  Banneker,  commanding  himself  with  an  effort; 
"Miss  Welland  reported  in  with  a  slight  injury.  That's  all." 

One  glance  at  him  told  Cressey  that  Banneker  did  indeed 
"know  something"  of  the  mysterious  disappearance  which  had 
so  exercised  a  legion  of  busy  tongues  in  New  York ;  how  much 
that  something  might  be,  he  preserved  for  future  and  private 
speculation,  based  on  the  astounding  perception  that  Banneker 
was  in  real  pain  of  soul.  Tact  inspired  Cressey  to  say  at  once : 

"Of  course,  that's  all  you  had  to  consider.  By  the  way,  you 
haven't  seen  my  revered  uncle  since  you  got  here,  have  you?" 

"Mr.  Vanney?  No." 

"Better  drop  in  on  him," 

"He  might  try  to  give  me  another  yellow-back,"  smiled  the 
ex-agent. 

"  Don't  take  Uncle  Van  for  a  fool.  Once  is  plenty  for  him  to  be 
hit  on  the  nose." 

"Has  he  still  got  a  green  whisker?" 

"  Go  and  see.  He's  asked  about  you  two  or  three  times  in  the 
last  coupla  months." 


The  Vision  177 

"But  I've  no  errand  with  him." 

"How  can  you  tell?  He  might  start  something  for  you.  It 
isn't  often  that  he  keeps  a  man  in  mind  like  he  has  you.  Anyway, 
he's  a  wise  old  bird  and  may  hand  you  a  pointer  or  two  about 
what's  what  in  New  York.  Shall  I  'phone  him  you're  in  town?" 

"Yes.  I'll  get  in  to  see  him  some  time  to-morrow." 

Having  made  an  appointment,  in  the  vital  matter  of  shirts  and 
shoes,  for  the  morning,  they  parted.  Banneker  set  to  his  brows 
ing  in  the  library  until  hunger  drove  him  forth.  After  dinner  he 
returned  to  his  room,  cumbered  with  the  accumulation  of  eve 
ning  papers,  for  study. 

Beyond  the  thin  partition  he  could  hear  Miss  Westlake  mov 
ing  about  and  humming  happily  to  herself.  The  sound  struck 
dismay  to  his  soul.  The  prospect  of  work  from  him  was  doubtless 
the  insecure  foundation  of  that  cheerfulness.  "Soon"  he  had 
said ;  the  implication  was  that  the  matter  was  pressing.  Proba 
bly  she  was  counting  on  it  for  the  morrow.  Well,  he  must  fur 
nish  something,  anything,  to  feed  the  maw  of  her  hungry  type 
writer  ;  to  fulfill  that  wistful  hope  which  had  sprung  in  her  eyes 
when  he  spoke  to  her. 

Sweeping  his  table  bare  of  the  lore  and  lure  of  journalism  as 
typified  in  the  bulky,  black-faced  editions,  he  set  out  clean 
paper,  cleansed  his  fountain  pen,  and  stared  at  the  ceiling. 
What  should  he  write  about?  His  mental  retina  teemed  with 
impressions.  But  they  were  confused,  unresolved,  distorted  for 
all  that  he  knew,  since  he  lacked  experience  and  knowledge  of 
the  environment,  and  therefore  perspective.  Groping,  he  recalled 
a  saying  of  Gardner's  as  that  wearied  enthusiast  descanted  upon 
the  glories  of  past  great  names  in  metropolitan  journalism. 

"They  used  to  say  of  Julian  Ralph  that  he  was  always  dis 
covering  City  Hall  Park  and  getting  excited  over  it ;  and  when  he 
got  excited  enough,  he  wrote  about  it  so  that  the  public  just  ate 
it  up." 

Well,  he,  Banneker,  hadn't  discovered  City  Hall  Park;  not 
consciously.  But  he  had  gleaned  wonder  and  delight  from  other 
and  more  remote  spots,  and  now  one  of  them  began  to  stand 
forth  upon  the  blank  ceiling  at  which  he  stared,  seeking  guidance. 
A  crowded  corner  of  Essex  Street,  stewing  in  the  hard  sunshine. 


178  Success 

The  teeming,  shrill  crowd.  The  stench  and  gleam  of  a  fish-stall 
offering  bargains.  The  eager  games  of  the  children,  snatched 
between  onsets  of  imminent  peril  as  cart  or  truck  came  whirling 
through  and  scattering  the  players.  Finally  the  episode  of  the 
trade  fracas  over  the  remains  of  a  small  and  dubious  weakfish, 
terminating  when  the  dissatisfied  customer  cast  the  delicacy  at 
the  head  of  the  stall-man  and  missed  him,  the  corpus  delicti  fall 
ing  into  the  gutter  where  it  was  at  once  appropriated  and  rapt 
away  by  an  incredulous,  delighted,  and  mangy  cat.  A  crude, 
commonplace,  malodorous  little  street  row,  the  sort  of  thing  that 
happens,  in  varying  phases,  on  a  dozen  East-Side  corners  seven 
days  in  the  week. 

Banneker  approached  and  treated  the  matter  from  the  view 
point  of  the  cat,  predatory,  philosophic,  ecstatic.  One  o'clock  in 
the  morning  saw  the  final  revision,  for  he  had  become  enthralled 
with  the  handling  of  his  subject.  It  was  only  a  scant  five  pages ; 
less  than  a  thousand  words.  But  as  he  wrote  and  rewrote,  other 
schemata  rose  to  the  surface  of  his  consciousness,  and  he  made 
brief  notes  of  them  on  random  ends  of  paper;  half  a  dozen  of 
them,  one  crowding  upon  another.  Some  day,  perhaps,  when 
there  were  enough  of  them,  when  he  had  become  known,  had 
achieved  the  distinction  of  a  signature  like  Gardner,  there  might 
be  a  real  series. . . .  His  vague  expectancies  were  dimmed  in 
weariness. 

Such  was  the  genesis  of  the  "Local  Vagrancies"  which  later 
were  to  set  Park  Row  speculating  upon  the  signature  "Eban." 


CHAPTER  IV 

ACCESSIBILITY  was  one  of  Mr.  Horace  Vanney 's  fads.  He  as 
pired  to  be  a  publicist,  while  sharing  fallible  humanity's  ignor 
ance  of  just  what  the  vague  and  imposing  term  signifies ;  and,  as 
a  publicist,  he  conceived  it  in  character  to  be  readily  available  to 
the  public.  Almost  anybody  could  get  to  see  Mr.  Vanney  in  his 
tasteful  and  dignified  lower  Broadway  offices,  upon  almost  any 
reasonable  or  plausible  errand.  Especially  was  he  hospitable  to 
the  newspaper  world,  the  agents  of  publicity ;  and,  such  is  the 
ingratitude  of  the  fallen  soul  of  man,  every  newspaper  office  in 
the  city  fully  comprehended  his  attitude,  made  use  of  him  as  con 
venient,  and  professionally  regarded  him  as  a  bit  of  a  joke,  albeit 
a  useful  and  amiable  joke.  Of  this  he  had  no  inkling.  Enough 
for  him  that  he  was  frequently,  even  habitually  quoted,  upon  a 
wide  range  of  windy  topics,  often  with  his  picture  appended. 

With  far  less  difficulty  than  he  had  found  in  winning  the  notice 
of  Mr.  Gordon,  Banneker  attained  the  sanctum  of  the  capitalist. 

"  Well,  well !"  was  the  important  man's  greeting  as  he  shook 
hands.  "Our  young  friend  from  the  desert!  How  do  we  find 
New  York?" 

From  Banneker 's  reply,  there  grew  out  a  pleasantly  purpose 
less  conversation,  which  afforded  the  newcomer  opportunity  to 
decide  that  he  did  not  like  this  Mr.  Vanney,  sleek,  smiling,  gentle, 
and  courteous,  as  well  as  he  had  the  brusque  old  tyrant  of  the 
wreck.  That  green- whiskered  autocrat  had  been  at  least  natural, 
direct,  and  unselfish  in  his  grim  emergency  work.  This  manifesta 
tion  seemed  wary,  cautious,  on  its  guard  to  defend  itself  against 
some  probable  tax  upon  its  good  nature.  All  this  unconscious,  in 
stinctive  reckoning  of  the  other  man's  characteristics  gave  to  the 
young  fellow  an  effect  of  poise,  of  judicious  balance  and  quiet 
confidence.  It  was  one  of  Banneker's  elements  of  strength, 
which  subsequently  won  for  him  his  unique  place,  that  he  was 
always  too  much  interested  in  estimating  the  man  to  whom  he 
was  talking,  to  consider  even  what  the  other  might  think  of  him. 


180  Success 

It  was  at  once  a  form  of  egoism,  and  the  total  negation  of 
egotism.  It  made  him  the  least  self-conscious  of  human  beings. 
And  old  Horace  Vanney,  pompous,  vain,  the  most  self-conscious 
of  his  genus,  felt,  though  he  could  not  analyze,  the  charm  of  it. 

A  chance  word  indicated  that  Banneker  was  already  "placed." 
At  once,  though  almost  insensibly,  the  attitude  of  Mr.  Vanney 
eased;  obviously  there  was  no  fear  of  his  being  "boned"  for  a 
job.  At  the  same  time  he  experienced  a  mild  misgiving  lest  he 
might  be  forfeiting  the  services  of  one  who  could  be  really  useful 
to  him.  Banneker's  energy  and  decisiveness  at  the  wreck  had 
made  a  definite  impression  upon  him.  But  there  was  the  matter 
of  the  rejected  hundred-dollar  tip.  Unpliant,  evidently,  this 
young  fellow.  Probably  it  was  just  as  well  that  he  should  be 
broken  in  to  life  and  new  standards  elsewhere  than  in  the  Vanney 
interests.  Later,  if  he  developed,  watchfulness  might  show  it  to 
be  worth  while  to ... 

"What  is  it  that  you  have  in  mind,  my  boy?"  inquired  the 
benign  Mr.  Vanney. 

"I  start  in  on  The  Ledger  next  month." 

"The  Ledger!  Indeed!  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  any 
journalistic  experience." 

"I  haven't." 

"Well.  Er  —  hum !  Journalism,  eh ?  A  —  er  —  brilliant  pn> 
fession!" 

"You  think  well  of  it?" 

"  I  have  many  friends  among  the  journalists.  Fine  fellows  1 
Very  fine  fellows." 

The  instinctive  tone  of  patronage  was  not  lost  upon  Banne 
ker.  He  felt  annoyed  at  Mr.  Vanney.  Unreasonably  annoved. 
"What's  the  matter  with  journalism?"  he  asked  bluntly. 

"The  matter?"  Mr.  Vanney  was  blandly  surprised.  "Have 
n't  I  just  said — " 

"  Yes ;  you  have.  Would  you  let  your  son  go  into  a  newspaper 
office?" 

"My  son?  My  son  chose  the  profession  of  law." 

"But  if  he  had  wanted  to  be  a  journalist?" 

"Journalism  does  not  perhaos  offer  the  same  opportunities 


The  Vision  181 

for  personal  advancement  as  some  other  lines,"  said  the  financier 
cautiously. 

"Why  shouldn't  it?" 

"It  is  largely  anonymous."  Mr.  Vanney  gave  the  impression 
of  feeling  carefully  for  his  words.  "One  may  go  far  in  journalism 
and  yet  be  comparatively  unknown  to  the  public.  Still,  he  might 
be  of  great  usefulness,"  added  the  sage,  brightening,  "very  great 
usefulness.  A  sound,  conservative,  self-respecting  newspaper  such 
as  The  Ledger,  is  a  public  benefactor." 

"And  the  editor  of  it?" 

"That's  right,  my  boy,"  approved  the  other.  "Aim  high! 
Aim  high !  The  great  prizes  in  journalism  are  few.  They  are, 
in  any  line  of  endeavor.  And  the  apprenticeship  is  hard." 

Herbert  Cressey's  clumsy  but  involuntary  protest  reasserted 
itself  in  Banneker's  mind.  "I  wish  you  would  tell  me  frankly, 
Mr.  Vanney,  whether  reporting  is  considered  undignified  and 
that  sort  of  thing?" 

"Reporters  can  be  a  nuisance,"  replied  Mr.  Vanney  fervently. 
"But  they  can  also  be  very  useful." 

'But  on  the  whole— " 

"On  the  whole  it  is  a  necessary  apprenticeship.  Very  suitable 
for  a  young  man.  Not  a  final  career,  in  my  judgment."  ; 

"A  reporter  on  The  Ledger,  then,  is  nothing  but  a  reporter 
on  The  Ledger." 

"Isn't  that  enough,  for  a  start?"  smiled  the  other.  "The 
station-agent  at  —  what  was  the  name  of  your  station?  Yes, 
Manzanita.  The  station-agent  at  Manzanita — " 

"Was  E.  Banneker,"  interposed  the  owner  of  that  name  posi 
tively.  "A  small  puddle,  but  the  inhabitant  was  an  individual 
toad,  at  least.  To  keep  one's  individuality  in  New  York  isn't  so 
easy,  of  course." 

"There  are  quite  a  number  of  people  in  New  York,"  pointed 
out  the  philosopher,  Vanney.  "  Mostly  crowd." 

"Yes,"  said  Banneker.  "You've  told  me  something  about  the 
newspaper  business  that  I  wanted  to  know."  He  rose. 

The  other  put  out  an  arresting  hand.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to  do 
a  little  reporting  for  me,  before  you  take  up  your  regular  work?" 


182  Success 

"What  kind  of  reporting?" 

"  Quite  simple.  A  manufacturing  concern  in  which  I  own  a 
considerable  interest  has  a  strike  on  its  hands.  Suppose  you  go 
down  to  Sippiac,  New  Jersey,  where  our  factories  are,  spend  three 
or  four  days,  and  report  back  to  me  your  impressions  and  any 
ideas  you  may  gather  as  to  improving  our  organization  for  fur 
thering  our  interests." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  I  could  be  useful  in  that  line  ?  " 
asked  Banneker  curiously,  i 

"My  observations  at  the  Manzanita  wreck.  You  have,  I 
believe,  a  knack  for  handling  a  situation." 

"I  can  always  try,"  accepted  Banneker. 

Supplied  with  letters  to  the  officials  of  the  International  Cloth 
Company,  and  a  liberal  sum  for  expenses,  the  neophyte  went  to 
Sippiac.  There  he  visited  the  strongly  guarded  mills,  still  making 
a  feeble  pretense  of  operating,  talked  with  the  harassed  officials, 
the  gang-boss  of  the  strike-breakers,  the  "private  guards,"  who 
had,  in  fact,  practically  assumed  dominant  police  authority  in 
the  place ;  all  of  which  was  faithful  to  the  programme  arranged 
by  Mr.  Vanney.  Having  done  so  much,  he  undertook  to  obtain  a 
view  of  the  strike  from  the  other  side ;  visited  the  wretched  tene 
ments  of  the  laborers,  sought  out  the  sullen  and  distrustful 
strike-leaders,  heard  much  fiery  oratory  and  some  veiled  threats 
from  impassioned  agitators,  mostly  foreign  and  all  tragically 
earnest ;  chatted  with  corner  grocery  men,  saloon-keepers,  ward 
politicians,  composing  his  mental  picture  of  a  strike  in  a  minor 
city,  absolutely  controlled,  industrially,  politically,  and  socially 
by  the  industry  which  had  made  it.  The  town,  as  he  came  to 
conceive  it,  was  a  fevered  and  struggling  gnome,  bound  to  a 
wheel  which  ground  for  others;  a  gnome  who,  if  he  broke  his 
bonds,  would  be  perhaps  only  the  worse  for  his  freedom.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  sixth  day,  for  his  stay  had  outgrown  its  original 
plan,  the  pocket-ledger,  3  T  9901,  was  but  little  the  richer,  but 
the  mind  of  its  owner  teemed  with  impressions. 

It  was  his  purpose  to  take  those  impressions  in  person  to  Mr. 
Horace  Vanney,  by  the  10  A.M.  train.  Arriving  at  the  station 
early,  he  was  surprised  at  being  held  up  momentarily  by  a  line 


The  Vision  183 

of  guards  engaged  in  blocking  off  a  mob  of  wailing,  jabbering 
women,  many  of  whom  had  children  in  their  arms,  or  at  their 
skirts.  He  asked  the  ticket-agent,  a  big,  pasty  young  man  about 
them. 

"Mill  workers,"  said  the  agent,  making  change. 

"What  are  they  after?'1 

"Wanta  get  to  the  10.10  train." 

"And  the  guards  are  stopping  them?" 

"You  can  use  your  eyes,  cantcha?" 

Using  his  eyes,  Banneker  considered  the  position.  "Are  those 
fellows  on  railroad  property?" 

"What  is  it  to  you  whether  they  are  or  ain't?" 

Banneker  explained  his  former  occupation.  "That's  different," 
said  the  agent.  "  Come  inside.  That's  a  hell  of  a  mess,  ain't  it ! " 
he  added  plaintively  as  Banneker  complied.  "  Some  of  those  poor 
Hunkies  have  got  their  tickets  and  can't  use  'em." 

"I'd  see  that  they  got  their  train,  if  this  was  my  station/' 
asserted  Banneker. 

"Yes,  you  would!  With  that  gang  of  strong-arms  against 
you." 

"Chase  'em,"  advised  Banneker  simply.  "They've  got  no 
right  keeping  your  passengers  off  your  trains." 

"Chase  'em,  ay?  You'd  do  it,  I  suppose." 

"I  would." 

"How?" 

"You've  got  a  gun,  haven't  you?" 

"Maybe  you  think  those  guys  haven't  got  guns,  too." 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  if  there  had  been  passengers  held 
up  from  their  trains  at  my  station  and  I  didn't  get  them  through, 
/'d  have  been  through  so  far  as  the  Atkinson  &  St.  Philip  goes." 

"This  railroad's  different.  I'd  be  through  if  I  butted  in  on 
this  mill  row." 

"How's  that?" 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  old  Vanney,  who's  the  real  boss  here,  is  a 
director  of  the  road." 

" So  that's  it ! "  Banneker  digested  this  information.  "Why  are 
the  women  so  anxious  to  get  away?" 


184  Success 

"They  say" — the  local  agent  lowered  his  voice — "their 
children  are  starving  here,  and  they  can  get  better  jobs  in  other 
places.  Naturally  the  mills  don't  want  to  lose  a  lot  of  their  hands, 
particularly  the  women,  because  they're  the  cheapest.  I  don't 
know  as  I  blame  'em  for  that.  But  this  business  of  hiring  a 
bunch  of  ex-cons  and  —  Hey !  Where  are  you  goin'  ?  " 

Banneker  was  beyond  the  door  before  the  query  was  com 
pleted.  Looking  out  of  the  window,  the  agent  saw  a  fat  and  fussy 
young  mother,  who  had  contrived  to  get  through  the  line, 
waddling  at  her  best  speed  across  the  open  toward  the  station, 
and  dragging  a  small  boy  by  the  hand.  A  lank  giant  from  the 
guards'  ranks  was  after  her.  Screaming,  she  turned  the  corner 
out  of  his  vision.  There  were  sounds  which  suggested  a  row  at  the 
station-door,  but  the  agent,  called  at  that  moment  to  the  wire, 
could  not  investigate.  The  train  came  and  went,  and  he  saw 
nothing  more  of  the  ex-railroader  from  the  West. 

Although  Mr.  Horace  Vanney  smiled  pleasantly  enough  when 
Banneker  presented  himself  at  the  office  to  make  his  report,  the 
nature  of  the  smile  suggested  a  background  more  uncertain. 

"Well,  what  have  you  found,  my  boy?"  the  financier  began. 

"A  good  many  things  that  ought  to  be  changed,"  answered 
Banneker  bluntly. 

"Quite  probably.  No  institution  is  perfect." 

"The  mills  are  pretty  rotten.  You  pay  your  people  too  little — " 

"Where  do  you  get  that  idea?" 

"From  the  way  they  live." 

"My  dear  boy ;  if  we  paid  them  twice  as  much,  they'd  live  the 
'  same  way.  The  surplus  would  go  to  the  saloons." 

"Then  why  not  wipe  out  the  saloons?" 

"I  am  not  the  Common  Council  of  Sippiac,"  returned  Mr. 
Vanney  dryly. 

"Aren't  you?"  retorted  Banneker  even  more  dryly. 

The  other  frowned.  "What  else ? " 

"Well ;  the  housing.  You  own  a  good  many  of  the  tenements, 
don't  you?"- 

"The  company  owns  some." 

"They're  filthy  holes." 


The  Vision  185 


"They  are  what  the  tenants  make  them." 

"The  tenants  didn't  build  them  with  lightless  hallways,  did 
they?" 

"They  needn't  live  there  if  they  don't  like  them.  Have  you 
spent  all  your  time,  for  which  I  am  paying,  nosing  about  like  a 
cheap  magazine  muckraker?"  It  was  clear  that  Mr.  Vanney  was 
. annoyed. 

'     "I've  been  trying  to  find  out  what  is  wrong  with  Sippiac. 
I  thought  you  wanted  facts." 

"Precisely.  Facts.  Not  sentimental  gushings." 

"Well,  there  are  your  guards.  There  isn't  much  sentiment 
about  them.  I  saw  one  of  them  smash  a  woman  in  the  face,  and 
knock  her  down,  while  she  was  trying  to  catch  a  train  and  get 
out  of  town." 

"And  what  did  you  do?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly  how  much.  But  I  hope  enough  to  land 
'him  in  the  hospital.  They  pulled  me  off  too  soon." 

"Do  you  know  that  you  would  have  been  killed  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  some  of  the  factory  staff  who  saved  you  from  the  other 
guards  —  as  you  deserved,  for  your  foolhardiness?  " 

The  young  man's  eyebrows  went  up  a  bit.  "Don't  bank  too 
much  on  my  foolhardiness.  I  had  a  wall  back  of  me.  And  there 
would  have  been  material  for  several  funerals  before  they  got 
me."  He  touched  his  hip-pocket.  "By  the  way,  you  seem  to  be 
well  informed." 

"  I've  been  in  'phone  communication  with  Sippiac  since  the 
regrettable  occurrence.  It  perhaps  didn't  occur  to  you  to  find 
out  that  the  woman,  who  is  now  under  arrest,  bit  the  guard  very 
severely." 

"Of  course !  Just  like  the  rabbit  bit  the  bulldog.  You've  got  a 
lot  of  thugs  and  strong-arm  men  doing  your  dirty  work,  that 
ought  to  be  in  jail.  If  the  newspapers  here  ever  get  onto  the 
situation,  it  would  make  pretty  rough  reading  for  you,  Mr. 
Vanney." 

The  magnate  looked  at  him  with  contemptuous  amusement. 
"  No  newspaper  of  decent  standing  prints  that  kind  of  socialistic 
stuff,  my  young  friend." 


186  Success 

" Why  not?" 

"Why  not!  Because  of  my  position.  Because  the  Interna 
tional  Cloth  Company  is  a  powerful  institution  of  the  most 
reputable  standing,  with  many  lines  of  influence." 

"  And  that  is  enough  to  keep  the  newspapers  from  printing  an 
article  about  conditions  in  Sippiac?"  asked  Banneker,  deeply 
interested  in  this  phase  of  the  question.  "Is  that  the  fact?" 

It  was  not  the  fact ;  The  Sphere,  for  one,  would  have  handled 
the  strike  on  the  basis  of  news  interest,  as  Mr.  Vanney  well  knew ; 
wherefore  he  hated  and  pretended  to  despise  The  Sphere.  But 
for  his  own  purposes  he  answered :  t  . 

'  Not  a  paper  in  New  York  would  touch  it.  Except, '  he  added 
negligently,  "perhaps  some  lying,  Socialist  sheet.  And  let  me 
warn  you,  Mr.  Banneker,"  he  pursued  in  his  suavest  tone,  "that 
you  will  find  no  place  for  your  peculiar  ideas  on  The  Ledger. 
In  fact,  I  doubt  whether  you  will  be  doing  well  either  by  them  or 
by  yourself  in  going  on  their  staff,  holding  such  views  as  you  do." 

"Do  you?  Then  I'll  tell  them  beforehand." 

Mr.  Vanney  privately  reflected  that  there  was  no  need  of  this : 
he  intended  to  call  up  the  editor-in-chief  and  suggest  the  unsuit- 
ability  of  the  candidate  for  a  place,  however  humble,  on  the  staff 
of  a  highly  respectable  and  suitably  respectful  daily. 

Which  he  did.  The  message  was  passed  on  to  Mr.  Gordon, 
and,  in  his  large  and  tolerant  soul,  decently  interred.  One  thing 
of  which  the  managing  editor  of  The  Ledger  was  not  tolerant  was 
interference  from  without  in  his  department. 

Before  allowing  his  man  to  leave,  Mr.  Vanney  read  him  a 
iong  and  well-meant  homily,  full  of  warning  and  wisdom,  and 
was  both  annoyed  and  disheartened  when,  at  the  end  of  it, 
Banneker  remarked : 

"I'll  dare  you  to  take  a  car  and  spend  twenty-four  hours  going 
about  Sippiac  with  me.  If  you  stand  for  your  system  after  that, 
I'll  pay  for  the  car." 

To  which  the  other  replied  sadly  that  Banneker  had  in  some 
manner  acquired  a  false  and  distorted  view  of  industrial  rela 
tions. 

Therein,  for  once  in  an  existence  guided  almost  exclusively  by 


The  Vision  187 

prejudice,  Horace  Vanney  was  right.  At  the  outset  of  a  new 
career  to  which  he  was  attuning  his  mind,  Banneker  had  been 
injected  into  a  situation  typical  of  all  that  is  worst  in  American 
industrial  life,  a  local  manufacturing  enterprise  grown  rich  upon 
the  labor  of  underpaid  foreigners,  through  the  practice  of  all  the 
vicious,  lawless,  and  insidious  methods  of  an  ingrown  autocracy, 
and  had  believed  it  to  be  fairly  representative.  Had  not  Horace 
Vanney,  doubtless  genuine  in  his  belief,  told  him  as  much  ? 

"We're  as  fair  and  careful  with  our  employees  as  any  of  our 
competitors." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  there  were,  even  then,  scores  of  manufac 
turing  plants  within  easy  distance  of  New  York,  representing 
broad  and  generous  policies  and  conducted  on  a  progressive  and 
humanistic  labor  system.  Had  Banneker  had  his  first  insight  into 
local  industrial  conditions  through  one  of  these,  he  might  readily 
have  been  prejudiced  in  favor  of  capital.  As  it  was,  swallowing 
Vanney's  statement  as  true,  he  mistook  an  evil  example  as  a  fair 
indication  of  the  general  status.  Then  and  there  he  became  a 
zealous  protagonist  of  labor. 

It  had  been  Mr.  Horace  Vanney's  shrewd  design  to  show  a 
budding  journalist  of  promise  on  which  side  his  self-interest  lay. 
The  weak  spot  in  the  plan  was  that  Banneker  did  not  seem  to 
care! 


CHAPTER  V 

BANNEKER'S  induction  into  journalism  was  unimpressive.  They 
gave  him  a  desk,  an  outfit  of  writing  materials,  a  mail-box  with 
his  name  on  it,  and  eventually  an  assignment.  Mr.  Mallory  pre 
sented  him  to  several  of  the  other  "cubs"  and  two  or  three  of  the 
older  and  more  important  reporters.  They  were  all  quite  amia 
ble,  obviously  willing  to  be  helpful,  and  they  impressed  the  ob 
servant  neophyte  with  that  quiet  and  solid  esprit  de  corps  which 
is  based  upon  respect  for  work  well  performed  in  a  common 
cause.  He  apprehended  that  The  Ledger  office  was  in  some  sort 
an  institution. 

None  of  his  new  acquaintances  volunteered  information  as  to 
the  mechanism  of  his  new  job.  Apparently  he  was  expected  to 
figure  that  out  for  himself.  By  nature  reticent,  and  trained  in  an 
environment  which  still  retained  enough  of  frontier  etiquette  to 
make  a  scrupulous  incuriosity  the  touchstone  of  good  manners 
and  perhaps  the  essence  of  self-preservation,  Banneker  asked  no 
questions.  He  sat  and  waited. 

One  by  one  the  other  reporters  were  summoned  by  name  to  the 
city  desk,  and  dispatched  with  a  few  brief  words  upon  the  various 
items  of  the  news.  Presently  Banneker  found  himself  alone,  in 
the  long  files  of  desks.  For  an  hour  he  sat  there  and  for  a  second 
hour.  It  seemed  a  curious  way  in  which  to  be  earning  fifteen 
dollars  a  week.  He  wondered  whether  he  was  expected  to  sit 
tight  at  his  desk.  Or  had  he  the  freedom  of  the  office  ?  Charac 
teristically  choosing  the  more  active  assumption,  he  found  his 
way  to  the  current  newspaper  files.  They  were  like  old  friends. 

"Mr.  Banneker."  An  office  boy  was  at  his  elbow.  "Mr. 
Greenough  wants  you." 

Conscious-  of  a  quickened  pulse,  and  annoyed  at  himself  be 
cause  of  it,  the  tyro  advanced  to  receive  his  maiden  assignment. 
The  epochal  event  was  embodied  in  the  form  of  a  small  clipping 
from  an  evening  paper,  stating  that  a  six-year-old  boy  had  been 
Catally  burned  at  a  bonfire  near  the  North  River.  Banneker,  Mr. 


The  Vision  189 

Greenough  instructed  him  mildly,  was  to  make  inquiries  of  the 
police,  of  the  boy's  family,  of  the  hospital,  and  of  such  witnesses 
as  he  could  find. 

Quick  with  interest  he  caught  up  his  hat  and  hurried  out. 
Death,  in  the  sparsely  populated  country  wherefrom  he  hailed, 
was  a  matter  of  inclusive  local  importance;  he  assumed  the 
same  of  New  York.  Three  intense  hours  he  devoted  to  an  item 
which  any  police  reporter  of  six  months'  standing  would  have 
rounded  up  in  a  brace  of  formal  inquiries,  and  hastened  back, 
brimful  of  details  for  Mr.  Greenough. 

"Good!  Good!"  interpolated  that  blandly  approving  gentle 
man  from  time  to  time  in  the  course  of  the  narrative.  "Write  it, 
Mr.  Banneker !  write  it." 

"How  much  shall  I  write?" 

"Just  what  is  necessary  to  tell  the  news." 

Behind  the  amiable  smile  which  broadened  without  lighting 
up  the  sub-Mongol  physiognomy  of  the  city  editor,  Banneker 
suspected  something.  As  he  sat  writing  page  after  page,  con 
scientiously  setting  forth  every  germane  fact,  the  recollection  of 
that  speculative,  estimating  smile  began  to  play  over  the  sen 
tences  with  a  dire  and  blighting  beam.  Three  fourths  of  the  way 
through,  the  writer  rose,  went  to  the  file-board  and  ran  through 
a  dozen  newspapers.  He  was  seeking  a  ratio,  a  perspective.  He 
wished  to  determine  how  much,  in  a  news  sense,  the  death  of  the 
son  of  an  obscure  East-Side  plasterer  was  worth.  On  his  return 
he  tore  up  all  that  he  had  written,  and  substituted  a  curt  para 
graph,  without  character  or  color,  which  he  turned  in.  He  had 
gauged  the  value  of  the  tragedy  accurately,  in  the  light  of  his 
study  of  news  files. 

Greenough  showed  the  paragraph  (which  failed  to  appear  at 
all  in  the  overcrowded  paper  of  next  morning)  to  Mr.  Gordon. 

"The  new  man  doesn't  start  well,"  he  remarked.  "Too  little 
imaginative  interest." 

"Isn't  it  knowledge  rather  than  lack  of  interest?"  suggested 
the  managing  editor. 

"It  may  come  to  the  same  thing.  If  he  knows  too  much  to  get 
really  interested,  he'll  be  a  dull  reporter." 


190  Success 

"I  doubt  whether  you'll  find  him  dull,"  smiled  Mr.  Gordon. 
"But  he  may  find  his  job  dull.  In  that  case,  of  course  he'd  bet 
ter  find  another. " 

Indeed,  that  was  the  danger  which,  for  weeks  to  follow, 
Banneker  skirted.  Police  news,  petty  and  formal,  made  up  his 
day's  work.  Had  he  sought  beneath  the  surface  of  it  the  under 
lying  elements,  and  striven  to  express  these,  his  matter  as  it 
came  to  the  desk,  however  slight  the  technical  news  value  might 
have  been,  would  have  afforded  the  watchful  copy-readers, 
trained  to  that  special  selectiveness  as  only  The  Ledger  could 
train  its  men,  opportunity  of  judging  what  potentialities  might 
lurk  beneath  the  crudities  of  the  "cub."  But  Banneker  was  not 
crude.  He  was  careful.  His  sense  of  the  relative  importance  of 
news,  acquired  by  those  weeks  of  intensive  analysis  before  apply 
ing  for  his  job,  was  too  just  to  let  him  give  free  play  to  his  pen. 
What  was  the  use?  The  "story"  wasn't  worth  the  space. 

Nevertheless,  3  T  9901,  which  Banneker  was  already  too 
cognoscent  to  employ  in  hi?  formal  newsgathering  (the  notebook 
is  anathema  to  the  metropolitan  reporter),  was  filling  up  with 
odd  bits,  which  were  being  transferred,  in  the  weary  hours  when 
the  new  man  sat  at  his  desk  with  nothing  to  do,  to  paper  in  the 
form  of  sketches  for  Miss  Westlake's  trustful  and  waiting  type 
writer.  Nobody  could  say  that  Banneker  was  not  industrious. 
Among  his  fellow  reporters  he  soon  acquired  the  melancholy 
reputation  of  one  who  was  forever  writing  "special  stuff,"  none 
of  which  ever  "landed."  It  was  chiefly  because  of  his  industry 
and  reliability,  rather  than  any  fulfillment  of  the  earlier  prom 
ise  of  brilliant  worth  as  shown  in  the  Sunday  Sphere  articles,  that 
he  got  his  first  raise  to  twenty  dollars.  It  surprised  rather  than 
gratified  him. 

He  went  to  Mr.  Gordon  about  it.  The  managing  editor  was 
the  kind  of  man  with  whom  it  is  easy  to  talk  straight  talk. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?"  asked  Banneker. 

Mr.  Gordon  played  a  thoughtful  tattoo  upon  his  fleshy 
knuckles  with  the  letter-opener.  "Nothing.  Aren't  you  satis 
fied?" 

"No.  Are  you?" 


The  Vision 191 

"You've  had  your  raise,  and  fairly  early.  Unless  you  had  been 
worth  it,  you  wouldn't  have  had  it." 

"Am  I  doing  what  you  expected  of  me?" 

"Not  exactly.  But  you're  developing  into  a  sure,  reliable 
reporter." 

"A  routine  man,"  commented  Banneker. 

"After  all,  the  routine  man  is  the  backbone  of  the  office." 
Mr.  Gordon  executed  a  fantasia  on  his  thumb.  "Would  you  care 
to  try  a  desk  job?"  he  asked,  peering  at  Banneker  over  his 
glasses. 

"I'd  rather  run  a  trolley  car.  There's  more  life  in  it." 

"  Do  you  see  life,  in  your  work,  Mr.  Banneker  ?  " 

"See  it?  I  feel  it.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  going  to  flatten  me 
out  like  a  steam-roller." 

"Then  why  not  write  it?" 

"It  isn't  news :  not  what  I  see." 

"Perhaps  not.  Perhaps  it's  something  else.  But  if  it's  there 
and  we  can  get  a  gleam  of  it  into  the  paper,  we'll  crowd  news  out 
to  make  a  place  for  it.  You  haven't  been  reading  The  Ledger 
I'm  afraid." 

"Like  a  Bible." 

"Not  to  good  purpose,  tnen.  What  do  you  think  of  Tommy 
Burt's  stuff?" 

"It's  funny ;  some  of  it.  But  I  couldn't  do  it  to  save  my  job." 

"Nobody  can  do  it  but  Burt,  himself.  Possibly  you  could 
learn  something  from  it,  though." 

"Burt  doesn't  like  it,  himself.  He  told  me  it  was  all  formula; 
that  you  could  always  get  a  laugh  out  of  people  about  something 
they'd  been  taught  to  consider  funny,  like  a  red  nose  or  a  smashed 
hat.  He's  got  a  list  of  Sign  Posts  on  the  Road  to  Humor." 

"The  cynicism  of  twenty-eight,"  smiled  the  tolerant  Mr. 
Gordon.  "  Don't  let  yourself  be  inoculated." 

"Mr.  Gordon,"  said  Banneker  doggedly;  "I'm  not  doing  the 
kind  of  work  I  expected  to  do  here." 

"You  can  hardly  expect  the  star  jobs  until  you've  made  your 
self  a  star  man." 

Banneker  flushed.  "I'm  not  complaining  of  the  way  I've  been 


192  Success 

treated.  I've  had  a  square  enough  deal.  The  trouble  is  with  me. 
I  want  to  know  whether  I  ought  to  stick  or  quit." 

"  If  you  quit,  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"I  haven't  a  notion,"  replied  the  other  with  an  indifference 
which  testified  to  a  superb,  instinctive  self-confidence.  "  Some 
thing." 

"Do  it  here.  I  think  you'll  come  along  all  right." 

"But  what's  wrong  with  me?"  persisted  Banneker. 

"Too  much  restraint.  A  rare  fault.  You  haven't  let  yourself 
out."  For  a  space  he  drummed  and  mused.  Suddenly  a  knuckle 
cracked  loudly.  Mr.  Gordon  flinched  and  glared  at  it,  startled 
as  if  it  had  offended  him  by  interrupting  a  train  of  thought. 
"Here !"  said  he  brusquely.  "There's  a  Sewer-Cleaners'  Associ 
ation  picnic  to-morrow.  They're  going  to  put  in  half  their  day 
inspecting  the  Stimson  Tunnel  under  the  North  River.  Pretty 
idea ;  isn't  it?  Suppose  I  ask  Mr.  Greenough  to  send  you  out  on 
the  story.  And  I'd  like  a  look  at  it  when  you  turn  it  in." 

Banneker  worked  hard  on  his  report  of  the  picnic ;  hard  and 
self-consciously.  Tommy  Burt  would,  he  knew,  have  made  a 
"scream"  of  it,  for  tired  business  men  to  chuckle  over  on  their 
way  downtown.  Pursuant  to  what  he  believed  Mr.  Gordon 
wanted,  Banneker  strove  conscientiously  to  be  funny  with  these 
human  moles,  who,  having  twelve  hours  of  freedom  for  sunshine 
and  air,  elected  to  spend  half  of  it  in  a  hole  bigger,  deeper,  and 
more  oppressive  than  any  to  which  their  noisome  job  called  them. 
The  result  was  five  painfully  mangled  sheets  which  presently  went 
to  the  floor,  torn  in  strips.  After  that  Banneker  reported  the 
picnic  as  he  saw,  felt,  and  smelt  it.  It  was  a  somber  bit  of  writing, 
not  without  its  subtleties  and  shrewd  perceptions ;  quite  unsuit 
able  to  the  columns  of  The  Ledger,  in  which  it  failed  to  appear. 
But  Mr.  Gordon  read  it  twice.  He  advised  Banneker  not  to  be 
discouraged. 

Banneker  was  deeply  discouraged.  He  wanted  to  resign. 

Perhaps  he  would  have  resigned,  if  old  Mynderse  Verschoyle 
had  not  died  at  eight  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  day  when 
Banneker  was  the  earliest  man  to  report  at  the  office.  A  pic 
turesque  character,  old  Mynderse,  who  had  lived  for  forty-five 


The  Vision  193 

years  with  his  childless  wife  in  the  ancient  house  on  West  loth 
Street,  and  for  the  final  fifteen  years  had  not  addressed  so  much 
as  a  word  to  her.  She  had  died  three  months  before ;  and  now  he 
had  followed,  apparently,  from  what  Banneker  learned  in  an 
interview  with  the  upset  and  therefore  voluble  secretary  of  the 
dead  man,  because,  having  no  hatred  left  on  which  to  center  his 
life,  he  had  nothing  else  to  live  for.  Banneker  wrote  the  story  of 
that  hatred,  rigid,  ceremonious,  cherished  like  a  rare  virtue  until 
it  filled  two  lives ;  and  he  threw  about  it  the  atmosphere  of  the 
drear  and  divided  old  house.  At  the  end,  the  sound  of  the 
laughter  of  children  at  play  in  the  street. 

The  article  appeared  word  for  word  as  he  had  written  it.  That 
noon  Tommy  Burt,  the  funny  man,  drawing  down  his  hundred- 
plus  a  week  on  space,  came  over  and  sat  on  Banneker's  desk,  and 
swung  his  legs  and  looked  at  him  mournfully  and  said : 

"You've  broken  through  your  shell  at  last." 

"Did  you  like  it?''  asked  Banneker. 

"Like  it !  My  God,  if  I  could  write  like  that !  But  what's  the 
use !  Never  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  that's  nonsense,"  returned  BanneKer,  phased.  "Of 
course  you  can.  But  what's  the  rest  of  your  'if'?" 

"I  wouldn't  be  wasting  mv  time  here.  The  magazines  for  me." 

"Is  that  better?" 

"Depends  on  what  you're  after.  For  a  man  who  wants  to 
write,  it's  better,  of  course." 

"Why?" 

"Gives  him  a  larger  audience.  No  newspaper  story  is  remem 
bered  overnight  except  by  newspaper  men.  And  they  don't 
matter." 

"Why  don't  they  matter?"  Banneker  was  surprised  again, 
this  time  rather  disagreeably. 

"It's  a  little  world.  There  isn't  much  substance  to  it.  Take 
that  Verschoyle  stuff  of  yours;  that's  literature,  that  is!  But 
you'll  never  hear  of  it  again  after  next  week.  A  few  people  here 
will  remember  it,  and  it'll  help  you  to  your  next  raise.  But  after 
you've  got  that,  and,  after  that,  your  lift  onto  space,  where  are 
you?" 


194  Success 

The  abruptly  confidential  approach  of  Tommy  Burt  flattered 
Banneker  with  the  sense  that  by  that  one  achievement  of  the 
Verschoyle  story  he  had  attained  a  new  status  in  the  office. 
Later  there  came  out  from  the  inner  sanctum  where  sat  the  Big 
Chief,  distilling  venom  and  wit  in  equal  parts  for  the  editorial 
page,  a  special  word  of  approval.  But  this  pleased  the  recipient 
Jess  than  the  praise  of  his  peers  in  the  city  room. 

After  that  first  talk,  Burt  came  back  to  Banneker's  desk  from 
time  to  time,  and  once  took  him  to  dinner  at  "  Katie's,"  the  little 
German  restaurant  around  the  corner.  Burt  was  given  over  to  a 
restless  and  inoffensively  egoistic  pessimism. 

"Look  at  me.  I'm  twenty-eight  and  making  a  good  income. 
When  I  was  twenty-three,  I  was  making  nearly  as  much.  When 
I'm  thirty-eight,  where  shall  I  be?" 

" Can't  you  keep  on  making  it?"  asked  Banneker. 

"Doubtful.  A  fellow  goes  stale  on  the  kind  of  stuff  I  do.  And 
if  I  do  keep  on?  Five  to  six  thousand  is  fine  now.  It  won't  be  so 
much  ten  years  from  now.  That's  the  hell  of  this  game ;  there's 
no  real  chance  in  it." 

"What  about  the  editing  jobs?" 

"Desk- work?  Chain  yourself  by  the  leg,  with  a  blue  pencil  in 
your  hand  to  butcher  better  men's  stuff?  A  managing  editor, 
now,  I'll  grant  you.  He  gets  his  twenty  or  twenty-five  thousand 
if  he  doesn't  die  of  overstrain,  first.  But  there's  only  a  few 
managing  editors." 

"There  are  more  editorial  writers." 

"Hired  pens.  Dishing  up  other  fellows' policies,  whether  you 
believe  in  'em  or  not.  No ;  I'm  not  of  that  profession,  anyway." 
He  specified  the  profession,  a  highly  ancient  and  dishonorable 
one.  Mr.  Burt,  in  his  gray  moods,  was  neither  discriminating 
nor  quite  just. 

Banneker  voiced  the  question  which,  at  some  point  in  his 
progress,  every  thoughtful  follower  of  journalism  must  meet  and 
solve  as  best  he  can.  "When  a  man  goes  on  a  newspaper  I  sup 
pose  he  more  or  less  accepts  that  paper's  standards,  doesn't  he  ?  " 

"More  or  less?  To  what  extent?"  countered  the  expert. 

"I  haven't  figured  that  out,  yet." 


The  Vision  195 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry  about  it,"  advised  the  other  with  a  gleam 
of  malice.  "The  fellows  that  do  figure  it  out  to  the  end,  and  are 
honest  enough  about  it,  usually  quit." 

"You  haven't  quit." 

"Perhaps  I'm  not  honest  enough  or  perhaps  I'm  too  cow 
ardly,"  retorted  the  gloomy  Burt. 

Banneker  smiled.  Though  the  other  was  nearly  two  years  his 
senior,  he  felt  immeasurably  the  elder.  There  is  about  the  true 
reporter  type  an  infinitely  youthful  quality;  attractive  and 
touching ;  the  eternal  juvenile,  which,  being  once  outgrown  with 
its  facile  and  evanescent  enthusiasms,  leaves  the  expert  declining 
into  the  hack.  Beside  this  prematurely  weary  example  of  a  swift 
and  precarious  success,  Banneker  was  mature  of  character  and 
standard.  Nevertheless,  the  seasoned  journalist  was  steeped  in 
knowledge  which  the  tyro  craved. 

"What  would  you  do,"  Banneker  asked,  "if  you  were  sent  out 
to  write  a  story  absolutely  opposed  to  something  you  believed 
right;  political,  for  instance?" 

"I  don't  write  politics.  That's  a  specialty," 

"Who  does?" 

"'Parson 'Gale." 

"Does  he  believe  in  everything  The  Ledger  stands  for?" 

"Certainly.  In  office  hours.  For  and  in  consideration  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  weekly,  duly  and  regularly  paid." 

"Outside  of  office  hours,  then." 

"  Ah ;  that's  different.  In  Harlem  where  he  lives,  the  Parson  is 
quite  a  figure  among  the  reform  Democrats.  The  Ledger,  as  you 
know,  is  Republican ;  and  anything  in  the  way  of  reform  is  its 
favorite  butt.  So  Gale  spends  his  working  day  poking  fun  at  his 
political  friends  and  associates." 

"Out  West  we'd  call  that  kind  of  fellow  a  yellow  pup." 

"Well,  don't  call  the  Parson  that;  not  to  me,"  warned  the 
other  indignantly.  "He's  as  square  a  man  as  you'll  find  on  Park 
Row.  Why,  you  were  just  saying,  yourself,  that  a  reporter  is 
bound  to  accept  his  paper's  standards  when  he  takes  the  job." 

"Then  I  suppose  the  answer  is  that  a  man  ought  to  work  only 
on  a  newspaper  in  whose  policies  he  believes." 


196  Success 

"Which  policies?  A  newspaper  has  a  hundred  different  ones 
about  a  hundred  different  things.  Here  in  this  office  we're  dead 
against  the  split  infinitive  and  the  Honest  Laboring  Man.  We 
don't  believe  he's  honest  and  we've  got  our  grave  doubts  as  to 
his  laboring.  Yet  one  of  our  editorial  writers  is  an  out-and-out 
Socialist  and  makes  fiery  speeches  advising  the  proletariat  to 
rise  and  grab  the  reins  of  government.  But  he'd  rather  split  his 
own  head  than  an  infinitive." 

"Does  he  write  anti-labor  editorials?"  asked  the  bewildered 
Banneker. 

"Not  as  bad  as  that.  He  confines  himself  to  European  politics 
and  popular  scientific  matters.  But,  of  course,  wherever  there  is 
necessity  for  an  expression  of  opinion,  he's  anti-socialist  in  his 
writing,  as  he's  bound  to  be." 

"Just  a  moment  ago  you  were  talking  of  hired  pens.  Now  you 
seem  to  be  defending  that  sort  of  thing.  I  don't  understand  your 
point  of  view." 

"Don't  you?  Neither  do  I,  I  guess,"  admitted  the  expositor 
with  great  candor.  "I  can  argue  it  either  way  and  convince  my 
self,  so  far  as  the  other  fellow's  work  is  concerned.  But  not  for 
my  own." 

"How  do  you  figure  it  out  for  yourself,  then?" 

"I  don't.  I  dodge.  It's  a  kind  of  tacit  arrangement  between 
the  desk  and  me.  In  minor  matters  I  go  with  the  paper.  That's 
easy,  oecause  I  agree  with  it  in  most  questions  of  taste  and  the 
way  01  doing  things.  After  all  The  Ledger  has  got  certain  stand 
ards  of  professional  conduct  and  of  decent  manners ;  it's  a  gentle 
man's  paper.  The  other  things,  the  things  where  my  beliefs  con 
flict  with  the  paper's  standards,  political  or  ethical,  don't  come 
my  way.  You  see,  I'm  a  specialist ;  I  do  mostly  the  fluffy  stuff." 

"If  that's  the  way  to  keep  out  of  embarrassing  decisions,  I'd 
like  to  become  a  specialist  myself." 

"You  can  do  it,  all  right,"  the  other  assured  him  earnestly. 
"That  story  of  yours  shows  it.  You've  got  The  Ledger  touch  — 
no,  it's  more  individual  than  that.  But  you've  got  something 
that's  going  to  stick  out  even  here.  Just  the  same,  there'll  come 
a  time  when  you'll  have  to  face  the  other  issue  of  your  job  or 
your  —  well,  your  conscience." 


The  Vision  197 

What  Tommy  Burt  did  not  say  in  continuation,  and  had  no 
need  to  say,  since  his  expressive  and  ingenuous  face  said  it  for 
him,  was,  "And  I  wonder  what  you'll  do  with  that!" 

A  far  more  influential  friend  than  Tommy  Burt  had  been 
wondering,  too,  and  had,  not  without  difficulty,  expressed  her 
doubts  in  writing.  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  had  written  to  Banneker : 

...  I  know  so  little  of  journalism,  but  there  are  things  about  it  that  I 
distrust  instinctively.  Do  you  remember  what  that  wrangler  from  the 
Jon  Cat  told  Old  Bill  Speed  when  Bill  wanted  to  hire  him:  "I  wouldn't 
take  any  job  that  I  couldn't  look  in  the  eye  and  tell  it  to  go  to  hell  on 
five  minutes'  notice."  I  have  a  notion  that  you've  got  to  take  that 
attitude  toward  a  reporting  job.  There  must  be  so  much  that  a  man 
cannot  do  without  loss  of  self-respect.  Yet,  I  can't  imagine  why  I 
should  worry  about  you  as  to  that.  Unless  it  is  that,  in  a  strange 
environment  one  gets  one's  values  confused.. .  .Have  you  had  to  do 
any  "Society"  reporting  yet?  I  hope  not.  The  society  reporters  of 
my  day  were  either  obsequious  little  flunkeys  and  parasites,  or  women 
of  good  connections  but  no  money  who  capitalized  their  acquaintance 
ship  to  make  a  poor  living,  and  whom  one  was  sorry  for,  but  would 
rather  not  see.  Going  to  places  where  one  is  not  asked,  scavenging  for 
bits  of  news  from  butlers  and  housekeepers,  sniffing  after  scandals  — 
perhaps  that  is  part  of  the  necessary  apprenticeship  of  newspaper 
work.  But  it's  not  a  proper  work  for  a  gentleman.  And,  in  any  case, 
Ban,  you  are  that,  by  the  grace  of  your  ancestral  gods. 

Little  enough  did  Banneker  care  for  his  ancestral  gods :  but  he 
did  greatly  care  for  the  maintenance  of  those  standards  which 
seemed  to  have  grown,  indigenously  within  him,  since  he  had 
never  consciously  formulated  them.  As  for  reporting,  of  what 
ever  kind,  he  deemed  Miss  Van  Arsdale  prejudiced.  Further 
more,  he  had  met  the  society  reporter  of  The  Ledger,  an  elderly, 
mild,  inoffensive  man,  neat  and  industrious,  and  discerned  in 
him  no  stigma  of  the  lickspittle.  Nevertheless,  he  hoped  that  he 
would  not  be  assigned  to  such  " society  news"  as  Remington  did 
not  cover  in  his  routine.  It  might,  he  conceived,  lead  him  into 
false  situations  where  he  could  be  painfully  snubbed.  And  he  had 
never  yet  been  in  a  position  where  any  one  could  snub  him  with 
out  instant  reprisals.  In  such  circumstances  he  did  not  know 
exactly  what  he  would  do.  However,  that  bridge  could  be  crossed 
or  refused  when  he  came  to  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SUCH  members  of  the  Brashear  household  as  chose  to  accommo 
date  themselves  strictly  to  the  hour  could  have  eight  o'clock 
breakfast  in  the  basement  dining-room  for  the  modest  considera 
tion  of  thirty  cents ;  thirty-five  with  special  cream- jug.  At  these 
gatherings,  usually  attended  by  half  a  dozen  of  the  lodgers, 
matters  of  local  interest  were  weightily  discussed ;  such  as  the 
progress  of  the  subway  excavations,  the  establishment  of  a  new 
Italian  restaurant  in  nth  Street,  or  the  calling  away  of  the 
fourth-floor-rear  by  the  death  of  an  uncle  who  would  perhaps 
leave  him  money.  To  this  sedate  assemblage  descended  one  crisp 
December  morning  young  Wickert,  clad  in  the  natty  outline  of  a 
new  Bernholz  suit,  and  obviously  swollen  with  tidings. 

"Whaddya  know  about  the  latest?"  he  flung  forth  upon  the 
coffee-scented  air. 

"Tfo  latest"  in  young  Wickert's  compendium  of  speech  might 
be  the  garments  adorning  his  trim  person,  the  current  song-hit  of 
a  vaudeville  to  which  he  had  recently  contributed  his  critical 
attention,  or  some  tidbit  of  purely  local  gossip.  Plainer,  the 
plump  and  elderly  accountant,  opined  that  Wickert  had  received 
an  augmentation  of  salary,  and  got  an  austere  frown  for  his  sally. 
Evidently  Wickert  deemed  his  news  to  be  of  special  import ;  he 
was  quite  bloated,  conversationally.  He  now  dallied  with  it. 

"Since  when  have  you  been  taking  in  disguised  millionaires, 
Mrs.  Brashear?" 

The  presiding  genius  of  the  house,  divided  between  profes 
sional  resentment  at  even  so  remotely  slurring  an  implication 
(for  was  not  the  Grove  Street  house  good  enough  for  any  mil 
lionaire,  undisguised!)  and  human  curiosity,  requested  an  ex 
planation. 

"I  was  in  Sherry's  restaurant  last  night,"  said  the  offhand 
Wickert. 

"I  didn't  read  about  any  fire  there,"  said  the  jocose  Hainer, 
pvdnting  his  sally  with  a  wink  at  Lambert,  the  art-student. 


The  Vision  199 

Wickert  ignored  the  gibe.  Such  was  the  greatness  of  his  tid 
ings  that  he  could  afford  to. 

"Our  firm  was  giving  a  banquet  to  some  buyers  and  big  folks 
in  the  trade.  Private  room  upstairs ;  music,  flowers,  champagne 
by  the  case.  We  do  things  in  style  when  we  do  'em.  They  sent 
me  up  after  hours  with  an  important  message  to  our  Mr.  Webler ; 
he  was  in  charge  of  arrangements." 

"Been  promoted  to  be  messenger,  ay?"  put  in  Mr.  Hainer, 
chuckling. 

"When  I  came  downstairs,"  continued  the  other  with  only  a 
venomous  glance  toward  the  seat  of  the  scorner,  "I  thought  to 
myself  what's  the  matter  with  taking  a  look  at  the  swells  feeding 
in  the  big  restaurant.  You  may  not  know  it,  people,  but  Sherry's 
is  the  ree-churchiest  place  in  Nuh  Yawk  to  eat  dinner.  It's  got 
'em  all  beat.  So  I  stopped  at  the  door  and  took  'em  in.  Swell? 
Oh,  you  dolls !  I  stood  there  trying  to  work  up  the  nerve  to  go  in 
and  siddown  and  order  a  plate  of  stew  or  something  that  wouldn't 
stick  me  more'n  a  dollar,  just  to  say  I'd  been  dining  at  Sherry's, 
when  I  looked  across  the  room,  and  whadda  you  think?"  He 
paused,  leaned  forward,  and  shot  out  the  climactic,  word, 
"Banneker!" 

"Having  his  dinner  there?"  asked  the  incredulous  but  fasci 
nated  Mrs.  Brashear. 

"Like  he  owned  the  place.  Table  to  himself,  against  the  wall. 
Waiter  fussin'  over  him  like  he  loved  him.  And  dressed !  Oh, 
Gee!" 

"Did  you  speak  to  him?"  asked  Lambert 

"He  spoke  to  me,"  answered  Wickert,  dealing  in  subtle  dis 
tinctions.  "He  was  just  finishing  his  coffee  when  I  sighted  him. 
Gave  the  waiter  haffa  dollar.  I  could  see  it  on  the  plate.  There  I 
was  at  the  door,  and  he  said,  'Why,  hello,  Wickert.  Come  and 
have  a  liquor.'  He  pronounced  it  a  queer,  Frenchy  way.  So  I 
said  thanks,  I'd  have  a  highball." 

"Didn't  he  seem  surprised  to  see  you  there?"  asked  Hainer. 

Wickert  paid  an  unconscious  tribute  to  good-breeding. 
"Banneker's  the  kind  of  feller  that  wouldn't  show  it  if  he  was 
surprised.  He  couldn't  have  been  as  surprised  as  I  was,  at  that. 


200  Success 

We  went  to  the  bar  and  had  a  drink,  and  then  I  ast  him  what'd 
he  have  on  me,  and  all  the  time  I  was  sizing  him  up.  /'m  telling 
you,  he  looked  like  he'd  grown  up  in  Sherry's." 

The  rest  of  the  conversation,  it  appeared  from  Mr.  Wickert's 
spirited  sketch,  had  consisted  mainly  in  eager  queries  from  him 
self,  and  good-humored  replies  by  the  other. 

Did  Banneker  eat  there  every  night  ? 

Oh,  no !  He  wasn't  up  to  that  much  of  a  strain  on  his  finances. 

But  the  waiters  seemed  to  know  him,  as  if  he  was  one  of  the 
regulars. 

In  a  sense  he  was.  Every  Monday  he  dined  there.  Monday  was 
his  day  off. 

Well,  Mr.  Wickert  (awed  and  groping)  would  be  damned !  All 
alone  ? 

Banneker,  smiling,  admitted  the  solitude.  He  rather  liked 
dining  alone. 

Oh,  Wickert  couldn't  see  that  at  all !  Give  him  a  pal  and  a 
coupla  lively  girls,  say  from  the  Ladies'  Tailor-Made  Depart 
ment,  good-lookers  and  real  dressers ;  that  was  his  idea  of  a  din 
ner,  though  he'd  never  tried  it  at  Sherry's.  Not  that  he  couldn't 
if  he  felt  like  it How  much  did  they  stick  you  for  a  good  feed- 
out  with  a  cocktail  and  maybe  a  bottle  of  Italian  Red  ? 

Well,  of  course,  that  depended .  .  .  which  way  was  Wickert 
going?  Could  Banneker  set  him  on  his  way?  He  was  taking  a 
taxi  to  the  Avon  Theater,  where  there  was  an  opening. 

Did  Mr.  Banneker  (Wickert  had  by  this  time  attained  the 
"Mr."  stage)  always  follow  up  his  dinner  at  Sherry's  with  a 
theater? 

Usually,  if  there  were  an  opening.  If  not  he  went  to  the  opera 
or  a  concert. 

For  his  part,  Wickert  liked  a  little  more  spice  in  life.  Still,  every 
feller  to  his  tastes.  And  Mr.  Banneker  was  sure  dressed  for  the 
part.  Say  —  if  he  didn't  mind  —  who  made  that  full-dress  suit? 

No ;  of  course  he  didn't  mind.  Mertoun  made  it. 

After  which  Mr.  Banneker  had  been  deftly  enshrouded  in  a 
fur-lined  coat,  worthy  of  a  bank  president,  had  crowned  these 
glories  with  an  impeccable  silk  hat,  and  had  set  forth.  Wickert 


The  Vision  201 

had  only  to  add  that  he  wore  in  his  coat  lapel  one  of  those  fancy 
tuberoses,  which  he,  Wickert,  had  gone  to  the  pains  of  pricing  at 
the  nearest  flower  shop  immediately  after  leaving  Banneker.  A 
dollar  apiece !  No,  he  had  not  accepted  the  offer  of  a  lift,  being 
doubtful  upon  the  point  of  honor  as  to  whether  he  would  be  ex 
pected  to  pay  a  pro  rata  of  the  taxi  charge.  They,  the  assembled 
breakfast  company,  had  his  permission  to  call  him,  Mr.  Wickert, 
a  goat  if  Mr.  Banneker  wasn't  the  swellest-looking  guy  he  had 
anywhere  seen  on  that  memorable  evening. 

Nobody  called  Mr.  Wickert  a  goat.  But  Mr.  Hainer  sniffed 
and  said : 

"And  him  a  twenty-five-dollar-a-week  reporter !" 

"Perhaps  he  has  private  means,"  suggested  little  Miss  West- 
lake,  who  had  her  own  reasons  for  suspecting  this :  reasons 
bolstered  by  many  and  frequent  manuscripts,  turned  over  to  her 
for  typing,  recast,  returned  for  retyping,  and  again,  in  many  in 
stances,  re-recast  and  re-retyped,  the  result  of  the  sweating  pro 
cess  being  advantageous  to  their  literary  quality.  Simultaneous 
advantage  had  accrued  to  the  typist,  also,  in  a  practical  way. 
Though  the  total  of  her  bills  was  modest,  it  constituted  an 
important  extra;  and  Miss  Westlake  no  longer  sought  to  find 
solace  for  her  woes  through  the  prescription  of  the  ambulant 
school  of  philosophic  thought,  and  to  solve  her  dental  difficulties 
by  walking  the  floor  of  nights.  Philosophy  never  yet  cured  a 
toothache.  Happily  the  sufferer  was  now  able  to  pay  a  dentist. 
Hence  Banneker  could  work,  untroubled  of  her  painful  footsteps 
in  the  adjoining  room,  and  considered  the  outcome  cheap  at  the 
price.  He  deemed  himself  an  exponent  of  enlightened  selfishness. 
Perhaps  he  was.  But  the  dim  and  worn  spinster  would  have 
given  half  a  dozen  of  her  best  and  painless  teeth  to  be  of  service 
to  him.  Now  she  came  to  his  defense  with  a  pretty  dignity : 

"  I  am  sure  that  Mr.  Banneker  would  not  be  out  of  place  in  any 
company." 

"Maybe  not,"  answered  the  cynical  Lambert.  "But  where 
does  he  get  it?  I  ask  you !" 

"Wherever  he  gets  it,  no  gentleman  could  be  more  forehanded 
in  his  obligations,"  declared  Mrs.  Brashear. 


202  Success 


"But  what's  he  want  to  blow  it  for  in  a  shirty  place  like 
Sherry's?"  marveled  young  Wickert. 

"Wyncha  ask  him?"  brutally  demanded  Hainer. 

Wickert  examined  his  mind  hastily,  and  was  fain  to  admit  in 
wardly  that  he  had  wanted  to  ask  him,  but  somehow  felt  "skit 
tish"  about  it.  Outwardly  he  retorted,  being  displeased  at  his  own 
weakness,  "Ask  him  yourself." 

Had  any  one  questioned  the  subject  of  the  discussion  at  Mrs. 
Brashear's  on  this  point,  even  if  he  were  willing  to  reply  to  im 
pertinent  interrogations  (a  high  improbability  of  which  even  the 
hardy  Wickert  seems  to  have  had  some  timely  premonition),  he 
would  perhaps  have  explained  the  glorified  routine  of  his  day-off, 
by  saying  that  he  went  to  Sherry's  and  the  opening  nights  for  the 
same  reason  that  he  prowled  about  the  water-front  and  ate  in 
polyglot  restaurants  on  obscure  street-corners  east  of  Tompkins 
Square;  to  observe  men  and  women  and  the  manner  of  their 
lives.  It  would  not  have  been  a  sufficient  answer;  Banneker 
must  have  admitted  that  to  himself.  Too  much  a  man  of  the 
world  in  many  strata  not  to  be  adjustable  to  any  of  them,  never 
theless  he  felt  more  attuned  to  and  at  one  with  his  environment 
amidst  the  suave  formalism  of  Sherry's  than  in  the  more  uneasy 
and  precarious  elegancies  of  an  East-Side  Tammany  Association 
promenade  and  ball. 

Some  of  the  youngsters  of  The  Ledger  said  that  he  was  climb 
ing. 

He  was  not  climbing.  To  climb  one  must  be  conscious  of  an 
ascent  to  be  surmounted.  Banneker  was  serenely  unaware  of 
anything  above  him,  in  that  sense.  Eminent  psychiatrists  were, 
about  that  time,  working  upon  the  beginning  of  a  theory  of  the 
soul,  later  to  be  imposed  upon  an  impressionable  and  faddish 
world,  which  dealt  with  a  profound  psychical  deficit  known  as 
a  "complex  of  inferiority."  In  Banneker  they  would  have  found 
sterile  soil.  He  had  no  complex  of  inferiority,  nor,  for  that  matter, 
of  superiority ;  mental  attitudes  which,  applied  to  social  status, 
breed  respectively  the  toady  and  the  snob.  He  had  no  complex 
at  all.  He  had,  or  would  have  had,  if  the  soul-analysts  had  in 
vented  such  a  thing,  a  simplex.  Relative  status  was  a  matter  to 


The  Vision  203 

which  he  gave  little  thought.  He  maintained  personal  standards 
not  because  of  what  others  might  think  of  him,  but  because  he 
chose  to  think  well  of  himself. 

Sherry's  and  a  fif th-row-center  seat  at  opening  nights  meant  to 
him  something  more  than  refreshment  and  amusement;  they 
were  an  assertion  of  his  right  to  certain  things,  a  right  of  which, 
whether  others  recognized  or  ignored  it,  he  felt  absolutely  as 
sured.  These  were  the  readily  attainable  places  where  successful 
people  resorted.  Serenely  determined  upon  success,  he  felt  him-  i 
self  in  place  amidst  the  outward  and  visible  symbols  of  it.  Let 
the  price  be  high  for  his  modest  means ;  this  was  an  investment 
which  he  could  not  afford  to  defer.  He  was  but  anticipating  his 
position  a  little,  and  in  such  wise  that  nobody  could  take  excep 
tion  to  it,  because  his  self-promotion  demanded  no  aid  or  favor 
from  any  other  living  person.  His  interest  was  in  the  environ 
ment,  not  in  the  people,  as  such,  who  were  hardly  more  thaa 
"walking  ladies  and  gentlemen"  in  a  mise-en-scene.  Indeed, 
where  minor  opportunities  offered  by  chance  of  making  acquaint 
ances,  he  coolly  rejected  them.  Banneker  did  not  desire  to  know 
people  —  yet.  When  he  should  arrive  at  the  point  of  knowing 
them,  it  must  be  upon  his  terms,  not  theirs. 

It  was  on  one  of  his  Monday  evenings  of  splendor  that  a  mis 
adventure  of  the  sort  which  he  had  long  foreboded,  befell  him. 
Sherry's  was  crowded,  and  a  few  tables  away  Banneker  caught 
sight  of  Herbert  Cressey,  dining  with  a  mixed  party  of  a  dozen. 
Presently  Cressey  came  over. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?"  he  asked,  shak 
ing  hands.  "Haven't  seen  you  for  months." 

"Working,"  replied  Banneker.  "Sit  down  and  have  a  cock 
tail.  Two,  Jules,"  he  added  to  the  attentive  waiter. 

"I  guess  they  can  spare  me  for  five  minutes,"  agreed  Cressey, 
•.glancing  back  at  his  forsaken  place.  "This  isn't  what  you  call 
work,  though,  is  it?" 

"Hardly.  This  is  my  day  off." 

"Oh  !  And  how  goes  the  job?" 

"Well  enough." 

'Td  think  so,"  commented  the  other,  taking  in  the  general 


204  Success 

effect  of  Banneker's  easy  habituation  to  the  standards  of  the 
restaurant.  "You  don't  own  this  place,  do  you?"  he  added. 

From  another  member  of  the  world  which  had  inherited  or 
captured  Sherry's  as  part  of  the  spoils  of  life,  the  question  might 
have  been  offensive.  But  Banneker  genuinely  liked  Cressey. 

"Not  exactly,"  he  returned  lightly.  "Do  I  give  that  unfortu 
nate  impression?" 

"You  give  very  much  the  impression  of  owning  old  Jules  — 
or  he  does  —  and  having  a  proprietary  share  in  the  new  head 
waiter.  Are  you  here  much?" 

"Monday  evenings,  only." 

"This  is  a  good  cocktail,"  observed  Cressey,  savoring  it  ex- 
pertlv.  "Better  than  they  serve  to  me.  And,  say,  Banneker, 
did  Mertoun  make  you  that  outfit?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  quit  him,"  declared  the  gilded  youth. 

"Why?  Isn't  it  all  right?" 

"All  right!  Dammit,  it's  a  better  job  than  ever  I  got  out  of 
him,"  returned  his  companion  indignantly.  "Some  change  from 
the  catalogue  suit  you  sported  when  you  landed  here !  You  know 

how  to  wear  'em ;  I've  got  to  say  that  for  you I've  got  to  get 

back.  When'll  you  dine  with  me?  I  want  to  hear  all  about  it." 

"Any  Monday,"  answered  Banneker. 

Cressey  returned  to  his  waiting  potage,  and  was  immediately 
bombarded  with  queries,  mainly  from  the  girl  on  his  left. 

"Who's  the  wonderful-looking  foreigner?" 

"He  isn't  a  foreigner.  At  least  not  very  much." 

"He  looks  like  a  North  Italian  princeling  I  used  to  know," 
said  one  of  the  women.  "One  of  that  warm-complexioned  out- 
of-door  type,  that  preserves  the  Roman  mould.  Isn't  he  an 
Italian?" 

"He's  an  American.  I  ran  across  him  out  in  the  desert  coun- 
try." 

"Hence  that  burned-in  brown.  What  was  he  doing  out  there ?" 

Cressey  hesitated.  Innocent  of  any  taint  of  snobbery  himself, 
he  yet  did  not  know  whether  Banneker  would  care  to  have  his 
humble  position  tacked  onto  the  tails  of  that  work  of  art,  his  new 


The  Vision  205 

coat.  "He  was  in  the  railroad  business,"  he  returned  cautiously. 
"His  name  is  Banneker." 

"I've  been  seeing  him  for  months,"  remarked  another  of  the 
company.  "He's  always  alone  and  always  at  that  table.  No 
body  knows  him.  He's  a  mystery." 

"He's  a  beauty,"  said  Cressey's  left-hand  neighbor. 

Miss  Esther  Forbes  had  been  quite  openly  staring,  with  her 
large,  gray,  and  childlike  eyes,  at  Banneker,  eating  his  oysters  in 
peaceful  unconsciousness  of  being  made  a  subject  for  discussion. 
Miss  Forbes  was  a  Greuze  portrait  come  to  life  and  adjusted  to 
the  extremes  of  fashion.  Behind  an  expression  of  the  sweetest 
candor  and  wistfulness,  as  behind  a  safe  bulwark,  she  preserved 
an  effrontery  which  balked  at  no  defiance  of  conventions  in 
public,  though  essentially  she  was  quite  sufficiently  discreet  for 
self-preservation.  Also  she  had  a  keen  little  brain,  a  reckless  but 
good-humored  heart  and  a  memory  retentive  of  important 
trifles. 

"In  the  West,  Bertie?"  she  inquired  of  Cressey.  "You  were 
in  that  big  wreck  there,  weren't  you?" 

"Devil  of  a  wreck,"  said  Cressey  uneasily.  You  never  could 
tell  what  Esther  might  know  or  might  not  say. 

"Ask  him  over  here,"  directed  that  young  lady  blandly,  "for 
coffee  and  liqueurs." 

"Oh,  I  say !"  protested  one  of  the  men.  "Nobody  knows  any 
thing  about  him  — 

"He's  a  friend  of  mine,"  put  in  Cressey,  in  a  tone  which  ended 
that  particular  objection.  "But  I  don't  think  he'd  come." 

Instantly  there  was  a  chorus  of  demand  for  him. 

"All  right,  I'll  try,"  yielded  Cressey,  rising. 

"Put  him  next  to  me,"  directed  Miss  Forbes. 

The  emissary  visited  Banneker's  table,  was  observed  to  be  in 
brief  colloquy  with  him,  and  returned,  alone. 

"Wouldn't  he  come?"  interrogated  the  chorus. 

"He's  awfully  sorry,  but  he  says  he  isn't  fit  for  decent  human 
associations. " 

"More  and  more  interesting!" — "Why?" — "What  awful 
thing  has  he  been  doing?" 


206  Success 

" Eating  onions,"  answered  Cressey.  "Raw." 

"I  don'  believe  it,"  cried  the  indignant  Miss  Forbes.  "One 
doesn't  eat  raw  onions  at  Sherry's.  It's  a  subterfuge." 

"Very  likely." 

"If  I  went  over  there  myself,  who'll  bet  a  dozen  silk  stockings 
that  I  can't  — " 

"Come  off  it,  Ess,"  protested  her  brother-in-law  across  the 
table.  "That's  too  high  a  jump,  even  for  you." 

She  let  herself  be  dissuaded,  but  her  dovelike  eyes  were 
vagrant  during  the  rest  of  the  dinner. 

Pleasantly  musing  over  the  last  glass  of  a  good  but  moderate- 
priced  Rosemont-Geneste,  Banneker  became  aware  of  Cressey's 
dinner  party  filing  past  him :  then  of  Jules,  the  waiter,  discreetly 
murmuring  something,  from  across  the  table.  A  faint  and  pro 
vocative  scent  came  to  his  nostrils,  and  as  he  followed  Jules's  eyes 
he  saw  a  feminine  figure  standing  at  his  elbow.  He  rose  promptly 
and  looked  down  into  a  face  which  might  have  been  modeled  for 
a  type  of  appealing  innocence. 

"You're  Mr.  Banneker,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  Esther  Forbes,  and  I  think  I've  heard  a  great  deal  about 
you." 

"It  doesn't  seem  probable,"  he  replied  gravely. 

"From  a  cousin  of  mine,"  pursued  the  girl.  "She  was  lo  Wei- 
land.  Haven't  I?" 

A  shock  went  through  Banneker  at  the  mention  of  the  name. 
But  he  steadied  himself  to  say :  "I  don't  think  so." 

Herein  he  was  speaking  by  the  letter.  Knowing  lo  Welland  as 
he  had,  he  deemed  it  very  improbable  that  she  had  even  so  much 
as  mentioned  him  to  any  of  her  friends.  In  that  measure,  at 
least,  he  believed,  she  would  have  respected  the  memory  of  the 
romance  which  she  had  so  ruthlessly  blasted.  This  girl,  with  the 
daring  and  wistful  eyes,  was  simply  fishing,  so  he  guessed. 

His  guess  was  correct.  Mendacity  was  not  outside  of  Miss 
Forbes's  easy  code  when  enlisted  in  a  good  cause,  such  as 
appeasing  her  own  impish  curiosity.  Never  had  lo  so  much  as 
mentioned  that  quaint  and  lively  romance  with  which  vague 


The  Vision  207 

gossip  had  credited  her,  after  her  return  from  the  West ;  Esther 
Forbes  had  gathered  it  in,  gossamer  thread  by  gossamer  thread, 
and  was  now  hoping  to  identify  Banneker  in  its  uncertain  pat 
tern.  Her  little  plan  of  startling  him  into  some  betrayal  had 
proven  abortive.  Not  by  so  much  as  the  quiver  of  a  muscle  or 
the  minutest  shifting  of  an  eye  had  he  given  sign.  Still  convinced 
that  he  was  the  mysterious  knight  of  the  desert,  she  was  moved 
to  admiration  for  his  self-command  and  to  a  sub-thrill  of  pleas 
urable  fear  as  before  an  unknown  and  formidable  species.  The 
man  who  had  transformed  self-controlled  and  invincible  lo 
Welland  into  the  creature  of  moods  and  nerves  and  revulsions 
which  she  had  been  for  the  fortnight  preceding  her  marriage, 
must  be  something  out  of  the  ordinary.  Instinct  of  womankind 
told  Miss  Forbes  that  this  and  no  other  was  the  type  of  man  to 
work  such  a  miracle. 

"But  you  did  know  lo?"  she  persisted,  feeling,  as  she  after 
ward  confessed,  that  she  was  putting  her  head  into  the  mouth  of 
a  lion  concerning  whose  habits  her  knowledge  was  regrettably 
insufficient. 

The  lion  did  not  bite  her  head  off.  He  did  not  even  roar.  He 
merely  said,  "  Yes." 

"In  a  railroad  wreck  or  something  of  that  sort?" 

"Something  of  that  sort." 

"Are  you  awfully  bored  and  wishing  I'd  go  away  and  let  you 
alone?"  she  said,  on  a  note  that  pleaded  for  forbearance.  "Be 
cause  if  you  are,  don't  make  such  heroic  efforts  to  conceal 
it." 

At  this  an  almost  imperceptible  twist  at  the  corners  of  his  lips 
manifested  itself  to  the  watchful  eye  and  cheered  the  enterprising 
soul  of  Miss  Forbes.  "No,"  he  said  equably,  "I'm  interested  to 
discover  how  far  you'll  go." 

The  snub  left  Miss  Forbes  unembarrassed. 

"Oh,  as  far  as  you'll  let  me,"  she  answered.  "Did  you  ride 
in  from  your  ranch  and  drag  lo  out  of  the  tangled  wreckage  at  the 
end  of  your  lasso?" 

"My  ranch?  I  wasn't  on  a  ranch." 

"Please,  sir,"  she  smiled  up  at  him  like  a  beseeching  angel, 


208  Success 

"what  did  you  do  that  kept  us  all  talking  and  speculating  about 
vou  for  a  whole  week,  though  we  didn't  know  your  name?" 

"  I  sat  right  on  my  job  as  station-agent  at  Manzanita  and  made 
up  lists  of  the  killed  and  injured,"  answered  Banneker  dryly. 

"  Station-agent ! "  The  girl  was  taken  aback,  for  this  was  not 
at  all  in  consonance  with  the  lo  myth  as  it  had  drifted  back,  from 
sources  never  determined,  to  New  York.  "Were  you  the  station- 
agent?" 

"I  was." 

She  bestowed  a  glance  at  once  appraising  and  flattering,  less 
upon  himself  than  upon  his  apparel.  "And  what  are  you  now? 
President  of  the  road?" 

"A  reporter  on  The  Ledger." 

"Really!"  This  seemed  to  astonish  her  even  more  than  the 
previous  information.  "What  are  you  reporting  here?" 

"I'm  off  duty  to-night." 

"  I  see.  Could  you  get  off  duty  some  afternoon  and  come  to  tea, 
if  I'll  promise  to  have  lo  there  to  meet  you? " 

"Your  party  seems  to  be  making  signals  of  distress,  Miss 
Forbes." 

"That's  the  normal  attitude  of  my  friends  and  family  toward 
me.  You'll  come,  won't  you,  Mr.  Banneker?" 

"Thank  you:  but  reporting  keeps  one  rather  too  busy  for 
amusement." 

"You  won't  come,"  she  murmured,  aggrieved.  "Then  it  is 
true  about  you  and  lo." 

This  time  she  achieved  a  result.  Banneker  flushed  angrily, 
though  he  said,  coolly  enough :  "  I  think  perhaps  you  would  make 
an  enterprising  reporter,  yourself,  Miss  Forbes." 

"I'm  sure  I  should.  Well,  I'll  apologize.  And  if  you  won't 
come  for  lo  —  she's  still  abroad,  by  the  way  and  won't  be  back 
for  a  month  —  perhaps  you'll  come  for  me.  Just  to  show  that 
you  forgive  my  impertinences.  Everybody  does.  I'm  going  to 
tell  Bertie  Cressey  he  must  bring  you. ...  All  right,  Bertie !  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  follow  me  up  like  —  like  a  paper-chase. 
Good-night,  Mr.  Banneker." 

To  her  indignant  escort  she  declared  that  it  couldn't  have  hurt 


The  Vision  209 

them  to  wait  a  jiffy ;  that  she  had  had  a  most  amusing  conversa 
tion  ;  that  Mr.  Banneker  was  as  charming  as  he  was  good  to  look 
at ;  and  that  (in  answer  to  sundry  questions)  she  had  found  out 
little  or  nothing,  though  she  hoped  for  better  results  in  future. 

"But  he's  lo's  passion-in-the-desert  right  enough,"  said  the 
irreverent  Miss  Forbes. 

Banneker  sat  long  over  his  cooling  coffee.  Through  haunted 
nights  he  had  fought  maddening  memories  of  lo's  shadowed 
eyes,  of  the  exhalant,  irresistible  femininity  of  her,  of  the  pulses 
of  her  heart  against  his  on  that  wild  and  wonderful  night  in  the 
flood ;  and  he  had  won  to  an  armed  peace,  in  which  the  outposts 
of  his  spirit  were  ever  on  guard  against  the  recurrent  thoughts  of 
her. 

Now,  at  the  bitter  music  of  her  name  on  the  lips  of  a  gossiping 
and  frivolous  girl,  the  barriers  had  given  away.  In  eagerness  and 
self-contempt  he  surrendered  to  the  vision.  Go  to  an  afternoon 
tea  to  see  and  speak  with  her  again  ?  He  would,  in  that  awakened 
mood,  have  walked  across  the  continent,  only  to  be  in  her  pres 
ence,  to  feel  himself  once  more  within  the  radius  of  that  inexor 
able  charm. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"KATIE'S"  sits,  sedate  and  serviceable,  on  a  narrow  side  street 
so  near  to  Park  Row  that  the  big  table  in  the  rear  rattles  its 
dishes  when  the  presses  begin  their  seismic  rumblings,  in  the 
daily  effort  to  shake  the  world.  Here  gather  the  pick  and  choice 
of  New  York  journalism,  while  still  on  duty,  to  eat  and  drink 
and  discuss  the  inner  news  of  things  which  is  so  often  much  more 
significant  than  the  published  version ;  haply  to  win  or  lose  a  few 
swiftly  earned  dollars  at  pass- three  hearts.  It  is  the  unofficial 
press  club  of  Newspaper  Row. 

Said  McHale  of  The  Sphere,  who,  having  been  stuck  with  the 
queen  of  spades  —  that  most  unlucky  thirteener  —  twice  in 
succession,  was  retiring  on  his  losses,  to  Mallory  of  The  Ledger 
who  had  just  come  in : 

"I  hear  you've  got  a  sucking  genius  at  your  shop." 

"If  you  mean  Banneker,  he's  weaned,"  replied  the  assistant 
city  editor  of  The  Ledger.  "He  goes  on  space  next  week." 

"Does  he,  though!  Quick  work,  eh?" 

"A  record  for  the  office.  He's  been  on  the  staff  less  than  a 
year." 

"Is  he  really  sucn  a  wonder?"  asked  Glidden  of  The  Monitor. 

Three  or  four  Ledger  men  answered  at  once,  citing  various 
stories  which  had  stirred  the  interest  of  Park  Row. 

"Oh,  you  Ledger  fellows  are  always  giving  the  college  yell  for 
each  other,"  said  McHale,  impatiently  voicing  the  local  jealousy 
of  The  Ledger's  recognized  esprit  de  corps.  "I've  seen  bigger 
rockets  than  him  come  down  in  the  ash-heap." 

"He  won't,"  prophesied  Tommy  Burt,  The  Ledger's  humorous 
specialist.  "He'll  go  up  and  stay  up.  High !  He's  got  the  stuff." 

"They  say,"  observed  Fowler,  the  star  man  of  The  Patriot, 
"he  covers  his  assignment  in  taxicabs." 

"He  gets  the  news,"  murmured  Mallory,  summing  up  in  that 
phrase  all  the  encomiums  which  go  to  the  perfect  praise  of  the 
natural-born  reporter. 


The  Vision  211 

"And  he  writes  it,"  put  in  Van  Cleve  of  The  Courier.  "Lord, 
how  that  boy  can  write !  Why,  a  Banneker  two-sticks  stands  out 
as  if  it  were  printed  in  black-face." 

"I've  never  seen  him  around,"  remarked  Glidden.  "What 
does  he  do  with  himself  besides  work?" 

"Nothing,  I  imagine,"  answered  Mallory.  "One  of  the  cubs 
reports  finding  him  at  the  Public  Library,  before  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  surrounded  by  books  on  journalism.  He's  a  serious 
young  owl." 

"It  doesn't  get  into  his  copy,  then,"  asserted  "Parson"  Gale, 
political  expert  for  The  Ledger. 

"Nor  into  his  appearance.  He  certainly  dresses  like  a  flower  of 
the  field.  Even  the  wrinkles  in  his  clothes  have  the  touch  of 
high-priced  Fifth  Avenue." 

"  Must  be  rich,"  surmised  Fowler.  "Taxis  for  assignments  and 
Fifth- A  venue  raiment  sound  like  real  money." 

"Nobody  knows  where  he  got  it,  then,"  said  Tommy  Burt. 
"Used  to  be  a  freight  brakeman  or  something  out  in  the  wild- 
and-woolly.  When  he  arrived,  he  was  dressed  very  proud  and 
stiff  like  a  Baptist  elder  going  to  make  a  social  call,  all  but  the 
made-up  bow  tie  and  the  oil  on  the  hair.  Some  change  and 
sudden!" 

"Got  a  touch  of  the  swelled  head,  though,  hasn't  he?"  asked 
Van  Cleve.  "I  hear  he's  beginning  to  pick  his  assignments 
already.  Refuses  to  take  society  stuff  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Oh,"  said  Mallory,  "I  suppose  that  comes  from  his  being 
assigned  to  a  tea  given  by  the  Thatcher  Forbes  for  some  foreign 
celebrity,  and  asking  to  be  let  off  because  he'd  already  been 
invited  there  and  declined." 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  McHale.  "Where  does  our  young  bird 
come  in  to  fly  as  high  as  the  Thatcher  Forbes  ?  He  may  look  like 
a  million  dollars,  but  is  he  ?  " 

"All  I  know,"  said  Tommy  Burt,  "is  that  every  Monday, 
which  is  his  day  off,  he  dines  at  Sherry's,  and  goes  in  lonely  glory 
to  a  first-night,  if  there  is  one,  afterward.  It  must  have  been 
costing  him  half  of  his  week's  salary." 

"Swelled  head,  sure,"  diagnosed  Decker,  the  financial  reporter 


212  Success 


of  The  Ledger.  "Well,  watch  the  great  Chinese  joss,  Greenough, 
pull  the  props  from  under  him  when  the  time  comes." 

"As  how?"  inquired  Glidden. 

"By  handing  him  a  nawsty  one  out  of  the  assignment  book, 
just  to  show  him  where  his  hat  fits  too  tight." 

"A  run  of  four-line  obits,"  suggested  Van  Cleve,  who  had 
passed  a  painful  apprenticeship  of  death-notices  in  which  is 
neither  profitable  space  nor  hopeful  opportunity, "  for  a  few  days, 
will  do  it." 

"Or  the  job  of  asking  an  indignant  millionaire  papa  why  his 
pet  daughter  ran  away  with  the  second  footman  and  where." 

"Or  interviewing  old  frozen-faced  Willis  Enderby  on  his 
political  intentions,  honorable  or  dishonorable." 

"If  I  know  Banneker,"  said  Mallory,  "he's  game.  He'll  take 
what's  handed  him  and  put  it  over." 

"Once,  maybe,"  contributed  Tommy  Burt.  "Twice,  perhaps. 
But  I  wouldn't  want  to  crowd  too  much  on  him." 

"  Greenough  won't.  He's  wise  in  the  ways  of  marvelous  and 
unlicked  cubs,"  said  Decker. 

"Why?  What  do  you  think  Banneker  would  do?"  asked 
Mallory  curiously,  addressing  Burt. 

"If  he  got  an  assignment  too  rich  for  his  stomach?  Well, 
speaking  unofficially  and  without  special  knowledge,  I'd  guess 
that  he'd  handle  it  to  a  finish,  and  then  take  his  very  smart  and 
up-to-date  hat  and  perform  a  polite  adieu  to  Mr.  Greenough  and 
all  the  works  of  The  Ledger  city  room." 

A  thin,  gray,  somnolent  elder  at  the  end  of  the  table,  whose 
nobly  cut  face  was  seared  with  lines  of  physical  pain  endured  and 
outlived,  withdrew  a  very  small  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  grunted. 

"The  Venerable  Russell  Edmonds  has  the  floor,"  said  Tommy 
Burt  in  a  voice  whose  open  raillery  subtly  suggested  an  under 
lying  affection  and  respect.  "He  snorts,  and  in  that  snort  is 
sublimated  the  wisdom  and  experience  of  a  ripe  ninety  years  on 
Park  Row.  Speak,  O  Compendium  of  all  the  — "I 

"Shut  up,  Tommy,"  interrupted  Edmonds.  He  resumed  his 
pipe,  gave  it  two  anxious  puffs,  and,  satisfied  of  its  continued 
vitality,  said : 


The  Vision  213 

"Banneker,  uh?  Resign,  uh?  You  think  he  would?" 

" I  think  so." 

" Does  he  think  so?" 

"  That's  my  belief." 

"He  won't,"  pronounced  the  veteran  with  finality.  "They 
never  do.  They  chafe.  They  strain.  They  curse  out  the  job  and 
themselves.  They  say  it  isn't  fit  for  any  white  man.  So  it  isn't, 
the  worst  of  it.  But  they  stick.  If  they're  marked  for  it,  they 
stick." 

"  Marked  for  it  ?  "  murmured  Glidden. 

"The  ink-spot.  The  mark  of  the  beast.  I've  got  it.  You've 
got  it,  Glidden,  and  you,  McHale.  Mallory's  smudged  with  it. 
Tommy  thinks  it's  all  over  him,  but  it  isn't.  He'll  end  between 
covers.  Fiction,  like  as  not,"  he  added  with  a  mildly  contemptu 
ous  smile.  "But  this  young  Banneker;  it's  eaten  into  him  like 
acid." 

"Do  you  know  him,  Pop?"  inquired  McHale. 

"  Never  saw  him.  Don't  have  to.  I've  read  his  stuff." 

"And  you  see  it  there?" 

"Plain  as  Brooklyn  Bridge.  He'll  eat  mud  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"Come  off,  Pop  !  Where  do  you  come  in  to  eat  mud?  You've 
got  the  creamiest  job  on  Park  Row.  You  never  have  to  do  any 
thing  that  a  railroad  president  need  shy  at." 

This  was  nearly  true.  Edmonds,  who  in  his  thirty  years  of 
service  had  filled  almost  every  conceivable  position  from  police 
headquarters  reporter  to  managing  editor,  had  now  reverted  to 
the  phase  for  which  the  ink-spot  had  marked  him,  and  was  again 
a  reporter ;  a  sort  of  super-reporter,  spending  much  of  his  time 
out  around  the  country  on  important  projects  either  of  news,  or 
of  that  special  information  necessary  to  a  great  daily,  which  does 
not  always  appear  as  news,  but  which  may  define,  determine,  or 
alter  news  and  editorial  policies. 

Of  him  it  was  said  on  Park  Row,  and  not  without  reason,  that 
he  was  bigger  than  his  paper,  which  screened  him  behind  a 
traditional  principle  of  anonymity,  for  The  Courier  was  of  the 
second  rank  in  metropolitan  journalism  and  wavered  between 
an  indigenous  Bourbonism  and  a  desire  to  be  thought  progres- 


214  Success 

sive.  The  veteran's  own  creed  was  frankly  socialistic ;  but  in  the 
Fabian  phase.  His  was  a  patient  philosophy,  content  with  slow 
progress ;  but  upon  one  point  he  was  a  passionate  enthusiast.  He 
believed  in  the  widest  possible  scope  of  education,  and  in  the 
fundamental  duty  of  the  press  to  stimulate  it. 

"We'll  get  the  Social  Revolution  just  as  soon  as  we're  edu 
cated  up  to  it,"  he  was  wont  to  declare.  "If  we  get  it  before 
then,  it'll  be  a  worse  hash  than  capitalism.  So  let's  go  slow  and 
learn." 

For  such  a  mind  to  be  contributing  to  an  organ  of  The  Courier 
type  might  seem  anomalous.  Often  Edmonds  accused  himself 
of  shameful  compromise;  the  kind  of  compromise  constantly 
necessary  to  hold  his  place.  Yet  it  was  not  any  consideration 
of  self-interest  that  bound  him.  He  could  have  commanded 
higher  pay  in  half  a  dozen  open  positions.  Or,  he  could  have 
afforded  to  retire,  and  write  as  he  chose,  for  he  had  been  a  shrewd 
investor  with  wide  opportunities.  What  really  held  him  was  his 
ability  to  forward  almost  imperceptibly  through  the  kind  of  news 
political  and  industrial,  which  he,  above  all  other  journalists  of 
his  day,  was  able  to  determine  and  analyze,  the  radical  projects 
dear  to  his  heart.  Nothing  could  have  had  a  more  titillating 
appeal  to  his  sardonic  humor  than  the  furious  editorial  refuta 
tions  in  The  Courier,  of  facts  and  tendencies  plainly  enunciated 
by  him  in  the  news  columns. 

Nevertheless,  his  Impotency  to  speak  out  openly  and  individu 
ally  the  faith  that  was  in  him,  left  always  a  bitter  residue  in  his 
mind.  It  now  informed  his  answer  to  Van  Cleve's  characteriza 
tion  of  his  job. 

"If  I  can  sneak  a  tenth  of  the  truth  past  the  copy-desk,"  he 
said,  "I'm  doing  well.  And  what  sort  of  man  am  I  when  I  go 
up  against  these  big-bugs  of  industry  at  their  conventions,  and 
conferences,  appearing  as  representative  of  The  Courier  which 
represents  their  interests?  A  damned  hypocrite,  I'd  say !  If  they 
had  brains  enough  to  read  between  the  lines  of  my  stuff,  they'd 
see  it." 

"Why  don't  you  tell  'em?"  asked  Mallory  lazily. 

"I  did,  once.  I  told  the  President  of  the  United  Manufactur- 


The  Vision  215 

ers'  Association  what  I  really  thought  of  their  attitude  toward 
labor." 

"With  what  result?" 

"He  ordered  The  Courier  to  fire  me." 

"You're  still  there." 

"Yes.  But  he  isn't.  I  went  after  him  on  his  record." 

"All  of  which  doesn't  sound  much  like  mud-eating,  Pop." 

"I've  done  my  bit  of  that  in  my  time,  too.  I've  had  jobs  to  do 
that  a  self-respecting  swill-hustler  wouldn't  touch.  I've  sworn 
I  wouldn't  do  'em.  And  I've  done  'em,  rather  than  lose  my  job. 
Just  as  young  Banneker  will,  when  the  test  comes." 

"I'll  bet  he  won't,"  said  Tommy  Burt. 

Mallory,  who  had  been  called  away,  returned  in  time  to  hear 
this.  "You  might  ask  him  to  settle  the  bet,"  he  suggested. 
"I've  just  had  him  on  the  'phone.  He's  coming  around." 

"I  will,"  said  Edmonds. 

On  his  arrival  Banneker  was  introduced  to  those  of  the  men 
whom  he  did  not  know,  and  seated  next  to  Edmonds. 

"We've  been  talking  about  you,  young  fellow,"  said  the 
veteran. 

From  most  men  Banneker  would  have  found  the  form  of 
address  patronizing.  But  the  thin,  knotty  face  of  Edmonds  was 
turned  upon  him  with  so  kindly  a  regard  in  the  hollow  eyes  that 
he  felt  an  innate  stir  of  knowledge  that  here  was  a  man  who 
might  be  a  friend.  He  made  no  answer,  however,  merely  glanc 
ing  at  the  speaker.  To  learn  that  the  denizens  of  Park  Row  were 
discussing  him,  caused  him  neither  surprise  nor  elation.  While  he 
knew  that  he  had  made  hit  after  hit  with  his  work,  he  was  not 
inclined  to  over-value  the  easily  won  reputation.  Edmonds's 
next  remark  did  not  please  him. 

"We  were  discussing  how  much  dirt  you'd  eat  to  hold  your  job 
on  The  Ledger." 

"The  Ledger  doesn't  ask  its  men  to  eat  dirt,  Edmonds,"  put 
in  Mallory  sharply. 

"Chop,  fried  potatoes,  coffee,  and  a  stein  of  Nicklas-brau," 
Banneker  specified  across  the  table  to  the  waiter.  He  studied 
the  mimeographed  bill-of -fare  with  selective  attention.  "And  a 


216  Success 

slice  of  apple  pie,"  he  decided.  Without  change  of  tone,  he  looked 
up  over  the  top  of  the  menu  at  Edmonds  slowly  puffing  his 
insignificant  pipe  and  said:  "I  don't  like  your  assumption,  Mr. 
Edmonds." 

"It's  ugly,"  admitted  the  other,  "but  you  have  to  answer  it. 
Oh,  not  to  me ! "  he  added,  smiling.  "To  yourself." 

"It  hasn't  come  my  way  yet." 

"  It  will.  Ask  any  of  these  fellows.  We've  all  had  to  meet  it. 
Yes ;  you,  too,  Mallory.  We've  all  had  to  eat  our  peck  of  dirt  in 
the  sacred  name  of  news.  Some  are  too  squeamish.  They  quit." 

"If  they're  too  squeamish,  they'd  never  make  real  newspaper 
men,"  pronounced  McHale.  "You  can't  be  too  good  for  your 
business." 

''Just  so,"  said  Tommy  Burt  acidly,  "but  your  business  can 
be  too  bad  for  you." 

"There's  got  to  be  news.  And  if  there's  got  to  be  news  there 
have  got  to  be  men  willing  to  do  hard,  unpleasant  work,  to  get 
it,"  argued  Mallory. 

"Hard?  All  right,"  r-torted  Edmonds.  "Unpleasant?  Who 
cares !  I'm  talking  about  the  dirty  work.  Wait  a  minute,  Mal 
lory.  Didn't  you  ever  have  an  assignment  that  was  an  outrage 
on  some  decent  man's  privacy?  Or,  maybe  woman's?  Some 
thing  that  made  you  sick  at  your  stomach  to  have  to  do?  Did 
you  ever  have  to  take  a  couple  of  drinks  to  give  you  nerve  to  ask 
some  question  that  ought  to  have  got  you  kicked  downstairs  for 
asking?" 

Mallory,  flushing  angrily,  was  silent.  But  McHale  spoke  up. 
"Hell !  Every  business  has  its  stinks,  I  guess.  What  about  being 
a  lawyer  and  serving  papers  ?  Or  a  manufacturer  and  having  to 
bootlick  the  buyers  ?  I  tell  you,  if  the  public  wants  a  certain  kind 
of  news,  it's  the  newspaper's  business  to  serve  it  to  'em ;  and  it's 
the  newspaper  man's  business  to  get  it  for  his  paper.  I  say  it's 
up  to  the  public." 

"The  public,"  murmured  Edmonds.  "Swill-eaters." 

"All  right !  Then  give  'em  the  kind  of  swill  they  want,"  cried 
McHale. 

Edmonds  so  manipulated  his  little  pipe  that  it  pointed  directly 
at  Banneker.  "Would  you?"  he  asked. 


The  Vision  217 

"Would  I  what?" 

"Give  'em  the  kind  of  swill  they  want?  You  seem  to  like  to 
keep  your  hands  clean." 

"Aren't  you  asking  me  your  original  question  in  another 
form?"  smiled  the  young  man. 

"You  objected  to  it  before." 

"I'll  answer  it  now.  A  friend  of  mine  wrote  to  me  when  I 
went  on  The  Ledger,  advising  me  always  to  be  ready  on  a 
moment's  notice  to  look  my  job  between  the  eyes  and  tell  it  to  go 
to  hell." 

"Yes;  I've  known  that  done,  too,"  interpolated  Mallory. 
"But  in  those  cases  it  isn't  the  job  that  goes."  He  pushed  back 
his  chair.  "Don't  let  Pop  Edmonds  corrupt  you  with  his  pes 
simism,  Banneker,"  he  warned.  "He  doesn't  mean  half  of  it." 

"Under  the  seal  of  the  profession,"  said  the  veteran.  "If 
there  were  outsiders  present,  it  would  be  different.  I'd  have  to 
admit  that  ours  is  the  greatest,  noblest,  most  high-minded  and 
inspired  business  in  the  world.  Free  and  enlightened  press. 
Fearless  defender  of  the  right.  Incorruptible  agent  of  the  people's 
will.  Did  I  say  'people's  will'  or  'people's  swill'?  Don't  ask 
me!" 

The  others  paid  their  accounts  and  followed  Mallory  out, 
leaving  Banneker  alone  at  the  table  with  the  saturnine  elder. 
Edmonds  put  a  thumbful  of  tobacco  in  his  pipe,  and  puffed 
silently. 

"What  will  it  get  a  man?"  asked  Banneker,  setting  down  his 
coffee-cup. 

"  This  game  ?  "  queried  the  other. 

"Yes." 

"'What  shall  it  profit  a  man,'"  quoted  the  veteran  rumina- 
tively.  "You  know  the  rest." 

"No,"  returned  Banneker  decidedly.  "That  won't  do. 
These  fellows  here  haven't  sold  their  souls." 

"Or  lost  'em.  Maybe  not,"  admitted  the  elder.  "Though  I 
wouldn't  gamble  strong  on  some  of  'em.  But  they've  lost  some 
thing." 

"Well,  what  is  it?  That's  what  I'm  trying  to  get  at." 

"Independence.  They're  merged  in  the  paper  they  write  for." 


218  Success 

"Every  man's  got  to  subordinate  himself  to  his  business,  if 
he's  to  do  justice  to  it  and  himself,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"Yes.  If  you're  buying  or  selling  stocks  or  socks,  it  doesn't 
matter.  The  principles  you  live  by  aren't  involved.  In  the  news 
paper  game  they  are." 

"Not  in  reporting,  though." 

"If  reporting  were  just  gathering  facts  and  presenting  them,  it 
wouldn't  be  so.  But  you're  deep  enough  in  by  now  to  see  that 
reporting  of  a  lot  of  things  is  a  matter  of  coloring  your  version  to 
the  general  policy  of  your  paper.  Politics,  for  instance,  or  the 
liquor  question,  or  labor  troubles.  The  best  reporters  get  to  do 
ing  it  unconsciously.  Chameleons." 

"And  you  think  it  affects  them?" 

"How  can  it  help?  There's  a  slow  poison  in  writing  one  way 
when  you  believe  another." 

"And  that's  part  of  the  dirt-eating?" 

"Well,  yes.  Not  so  obvious  as  some  of  the  other  kinds.  Those 
hurt  your  pride,  mostly.  This  kind  hurts  your  self-respect." 

"  But  where  does  it  get  you,  all  this  business?  "  asked  Banneker 
reverting  to  his  first  query. 

"  I'm  fifty-two  years  old,"  replied  Edmonds  quietly. 

Banneker  stared.  "Oh,  I  see!"  he  said  presently.  "And 
you're  considered  a  success.  Of  course  you  are  a  success.' 

"On  Park  Row.  Would  you  like  to  be  me?  At  fifty- two?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Banneker  with  a  frankness  which 
brought  a  faint  smile  to  the  other  man's  tired  face.  "Yet  you've 
got  where  you  started  for,  haven't  you?" 

"Perhaps  I  could  answer  that  if  I  knew  where  I  started  for  or 
where  I've  got  to." 

"Put  it  that  you've  got  what  you  were  after,  then." 

"No's  the  answer.  Upper-case  No.  I  want  to  get  certain 
things  over  to  the  public  intelligence.  Maybe  I've  got  one 
per  cent  of  them  over.  Not  more." 

"That's  something.  To  have  a  public  that  will  follow  you  even 
part  way  — " 

"  Follow  me  ?  Bless  you ;  they  don't  know  me  except  as  a  lot  of 
print  that  they  occasionally  read.  I'm  as  anonymous  as  an  edi 
torial  writer.  And  that's  the  most  anonymous  thing  there  is."  „ 


The  Vision  219 

"That  doesn't  suit  me  at  all,"  declared  Banneker.  "If  I  have 
got  anything  in  me  —  and  I  think  I  have  —  I  don't  want  it  to 
make  a  noise  like  a  part  of  a  big  machine.  I'd  rather  make  a  small 
noise  of  my  own." 

"Buy  a  paper,  then.  Or  write  fluffy  criticisms  about  art  or 
theaters.  Or  get  into  the  magazine  field.  You  can  write ;  O 
Lord !  yes,  you  can  write.  But  unless  you've  got  the  devotion  of 
a  fanatic  like  McHale,  or  a  born  servant  of  the  machine  like 
*  Parson '  Gale,  or  an  old  fool  like  me,  willing  to  sink  your  iden 
tity  in  your  work,  you'll  never  be  content  as  a  reporter." 

"Tell  me  something.  Why  do  none  of  the  men,  talking  among 
themselves,  ever  refer  to  themselves  as  reporters.  It's  always 
'newspaper  men/" 

Edmonds  shot  a  swift  glance  at  him.  "  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"I  think,"  he  decided  slowly,  "it's  because  there  is  a  sort  of 
stigma  attached  to  reporting." 

"Damn  you,  you're  right!"  snapped  the  veteran.  "Though 
it's  the  rankest  heresy  to  admit  it.  There's  a  taint  about  it. 
There's  a  touch  of  the  pariah.  We  try  to  fool  ourselves  into 
thinking  there  isn't.  But  it's  there,  and  we  admit  it  when  we  use 
a  clumsy,  misfit  term  like  '  newspaper  man.' " 

"Whose  fault  is  it?" 

"The  public's.  The  public  is  a  snob.  It  likes  to  look  down  on 
brains.  Particularly  the  business  man.  That's  why  I'm  a  Social 
ist.  I'm  ag'in  the  bourgeoisie." 

"Aren't  the  newspapers  to  blame,  in  the  kind  of  stuff  they 
print?" 

"And  why  do  they  print  it?"  demanded  the  other  fiercely. 
"Because  the  public  wants  all  the  filth  and  scandal  and  invasion 
of  privacy  that  it  can  get  and  still  feel  respectable." 

"The  Ledger  doesn't  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing/ 

"Not  as  much  as  some  of  the  others.  But  a  little  more  each 
year.  It  follows  the  trend."  He  got  up,  quenched  his  pipe,  and 
reached  for  his  hat.  "Drop  in  here  about  seven-thirty  when  you 
feel  like  hearing  the  old  man  maunder,"  he  said  with  his  slight, 
friendly  smile. 

Rising,  Banneker  leaned  over  to  him.  "Who's  the  man  at 
the  next  table?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice,  indicating  a  tall,  broad, 


220  Success 

glossily  dressed  diner  who  was  sipping  his  third  demi-tasse,  in 
apparent  detachment  from  the  outside  world. 

"His  name  is  Marrineal,"  replied  the  veteran.  "He  dines  here 
occasionally  alone.  Don't  know  what  he  does." 

"He's  been  listening  in." 

"Curious  thing;  he  often  does." 

As  they  parted  at  the  door,  Edmonds  said  paternally : 

"Remember,  young  fellow,  a  Park  Row  reputation  is  written 
on  glass  with  a  wet  ringer.  It  doesn't  last  during  the  writing." 

"And  only  dims  the  glass,"  said  Banneker  reflectively. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HEAT,  sudden,  savage,  and  oppressive,  bore  down  upon  the  city 
early  that  spring,  smiting  men  in  their  offices,  women  in  their 
homes,  the  horses  between  the  shafts  of  their  toil,  so  that  the 
city  was  in  danger  of  becoming  disorganized.  The  visitation 
developed  into  the  big  story  of  successive  days.  It  was  the  sort 
of  generalized,  picturesque  "fluff-stuff"  matter  which  Banneker 
could  handle  better  than  his  compeers  by  sheer  imaginative 
grasp  and  deftness  of  presentation.  Being  now  a  writer  on  space, 
paid  at  the  rate  of  eight  dollars  a  column  of  from  thirteen  to 
nineteen  hundred  words,  he  found  the  assignment  profitable  and 
the  test  of  skill  quite  to  his  taste.  Soft  job  though  it  was  in  a  way, 
however,  the  unrelenting  pressure  of  the  heat  and  the  task  of 
finding,  day  after  day,  new  phases  and  fresh  phrases  in  which  to 
deal  with  it,  made  inroads  upon  his  nerves. 

He  took  to  sleeping  ill  again.  lo  Welland  had  come  back  in  all 
the  glamorous  panoply  of  waking  dreams  to  command  and  tor 
ment  his  loneliness  of  spirit.  At  night  he  dreaded  the  return  to  the 
draughtless  room  on  Grove  Street.  In  the  morning,  rising  sticky- 
eyed  and  unrested,  he  shrank  from  the  thought  of  the  humid, 
dusty,  unkempt  hurly-burly  of  the  office.  Yet  his  work  was  never 
more  brilliant  and  individual. 

Having  finished  his  writing,  one  reeking  midnight,  he  sat, 
spent,  at  his  desk,  hating  the  thought  of  the  shut-in  place  that 
he  called  home.  Better  to  spend  the  night  on  a  bench  in  some 
square,  as  he  had  done  often  enough  in  the  earlier  days.  He 
rose,  took  his  hat,  and  had  reached  the  first  landing  when  the 
steps  wavered  and  faded  in  front  of  him  and  he  found  himself 
clutching  for  the  rail.  A  pair  of  hands  gripped  his  shoulders  and 
held  him  up. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Banneker?"  asked  a  voice. 

"Godi"  muttered  Banneker.  "I  wish  I  were  back  on  the 
desert." 

"You  want  a  drink,"  prescribed  his  volunteer  prop. 


222  Success 

As  his  vision  and  control  reestablished  themselves,  Banneker 
found  himself  being  led  downstairs  and  to  the  nearest  bar  by 
young  Fentriss  Smith,  who  ordered  two  soda  cocktails. 

Of  Smith  he  knew  little  except  that  the  office  called  him  "  the 
permanent  twenty-five-dollar  man."  He  was  one  of  those 
earnest,  faithful,  totally  uninspired  reporters,  who  can  be  relied 
upon  implicitly  for  routine  news,  but  are  constitutionally  impo 
tent  to  impart  color  and  life  to  any  subject  whatsoever.  Pa 
tiently  he  had  seen  younger  and  newer  men  overtake  and  pass 
him ;  but  he  worked  on  inexorably,  asking  for  nothing,  wearing 
the  air  of  a  scholar  with  some  distant  and  abstruse  determina^ 
tion  in  view.  Like  Banneker  he  had  no  intimates  in  the  office. 

"The  desert,"  echoed  Smith  in  his  quiet,  well-bred  voice. 
"Isn't  it  pretty  hot,  there,  too?" 

"It's  open,"  said  Banneker.  "I'm  smotnering  here." 

"You  look  frazzled  out,  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so." 

"I  feel  frazzled  out;  that's  what  I  mind." 

"Suppose  you  come  out  with  me  to-night  as  soon  as  I  report 
to  the  desk,"  suggested  the  other. 

Banneker,  refreshed  by  the  tingling  drink,  looked  down  at  him 
in  surprise.  "Where?"  he  asked. 

"I've  got  a  little  boat  out  here  in  the  East  River." 

"A  boat?  Lord,  that  sounds  good!"  sighed  Banneker. 

"Does  it?  Then  see  here!  Why  couldn't  you  put  in  a  few 
days  with  me,  and  cool  off?  I've  often  wanted  to  talk  to  you 
about  the  newspaper  business,  and  get  your  ideas." 

"But  I'm  newer  at  it  than  you  are." 

"For  a  fact!  Just  the  same  you've  got  the  trick  of  it  and  I 
haven't.  I'll  go  around  to  your  place  while  you  pack  a  suitcase, 
and  we're  off." 

"That's  very  good  of  you."  Accustomed  though  he  was  to 
the  swift  and  ready  comradeship  of  a  newspaper  office,  Banneker 
was  puzzled  by  this  advance  from  the  shy  and  remote  Smith. 
"All  right :  if  you'll  let  me  share  expenses,"  he  said  presently. 

Smith  seemed  taken  aback  at  this.  "Just  as  you  like,"  he 
assented.  "Though  I  don't  quite  know— We'll  talk  of  that 
later." 


The  Vision  223 

While  Banneker  was  packing  in  his  room,  Smith,  seated  on  the 
window-sill,  remarked: 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  we  have  to  go  through  a  bad  district 
10  get  there." 

"The  Tunnel  Gang?"  asked  Banneker,  wise  in  the  plague 
i  spots  of  the  city. 

"Just  this  side  of  their  stamping  ground.  It's  a  gang  of  wharf 
rats.  There  have  been  a  number  of  hold-ups,  and  last  week  a 
dead  woman  was  found  under  the  pier." 

Banneker  made  an  unobtrusive  addition  to  his  packing. 
"They'll  have  to  move  fast  to  catch  me,"  he  observed. 

"Two  of  us  together  won't  be  molested.  But  if  you're  alone, 
be  careful.  The  police  in  that  precinct  are  no  good.  They're 
either  afraid  or  they  stand  in  with  the  gang." 

On  Fifth  Avenue  the  pair  got  a  late-cruising  taxicab  whose 
driver,  however,  declined  to  take  them  nearer  than  one  block 
short  of  the  pier.  "The  night  air  in  that  place  ain't  good  fer 
weak  constitutions,"  he  explained.  "One  o'  my  pals  got  a  head 
ache  last  week  down  on  the  pier  from  bein'  beaned  with  a  sand 
bag." 

No  one  interfered  with  the  two  reporters,  however.  A  whistle 
from  the  end  of  the  pier  evolved  from  the  watery  dimness  a 
dinghy,  which,  in  a  hundred  yards  of  rowing,  delivered  them  into 
a  small  but  perfectly  appointed  yacht.  Banneker,  looking  about 
the  luxurious  cabin,  laughed  a  little. 

"That  was  a  bad  guess  of  mine  about  half  expenses,"  he  said 
good-humoredly.  "I'd  have  to  mortgage  my  future  for  a  year. 
Do  you  own  this  craft?" 

"My  father  does.     He's  been  called  back  West." 

Bells  rang,  the  wheel  began  to  churn,  and  Banneker,  falling 
asleep  in  his  berth  with  a  vivifying  breeze  blowing  across  him, 
awoke  in  broad  daylight  to  a  view  of  sparkling  little  waves  which 
danced  across  his  vision  to  smack  impudently  the  flanks  of  the 
speeding  craft. 

"We'll  be  in  by  noon,"  was  Smith's  greeting  as  they  met  on 
the  companionway  for  a  swim. 

"What  do  you  do  it  for?"  asked  Banneker,  seated  at  the 


224  Success 


breakfast  table,  with  an  appetite  such  as  he  had  not  known  for 
weeks. 

" Do  what?" 

"Two  men's  work  at  twenty-five  per  for  The  Ledger?" 

"Training." 

"Are  you  going  to  stick  to  the  business?" 

"The  family,"  explained  Smith,  "own  a  newspaper  in  Toledo. 
It  fell  to  them  by  accident.  Our  real  business  is  manufacturing 
farm  machinery,  and  none  of  us  has  ever  tried  or  thought  of 
manufacturing  newspapers.  So  they  wished  on  me  the  job  of 
learning  how." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"Not  particularly.  But  I'm  going  through  with  it.' 

Banneker  felt  a  new  and  surprised  respect  for  his  host.  He 
could  forecast  the  kind  of  small  city  newspaper  that  Smith  would 
make ;  careful,  conscientious,  regular  in  politics,  loyal  to  what  it 
deemed  the  best  interests  of  the  community,  single-minded  in  its 
devotion  to  the  Smith  family  and  its  properties;  colorless, 
characterless,  and  without  vision  or  leadership  in  all  that  a  news 
paper  should,  according  to  Banneker's  opinion,  stand  for.  So  he 
talked  with  the  fervor  of  an  enthusiast,  a  missionary,  a  devotee, 
who  saw  in  that  daily  chronicle  of  the  news  an  agency  to  stir 
men's  minds  and  spur  their  thoughts,  if  need  be,  to  action ;  at  the 
same  time  the  mechanism  and  instrument  of  power,  of  achieve 
ment,  of  success.  Fentriss  Smith  listened  and  was  troubled  in 
spirit  by  these  unknown  fires.  He  had  supposed  respectability 
to  be  the  final  aim  and  end  of  a  sound  newspaper  tradition. 

The  apparent  intimacy  which  had  sprung  up  between  twenty- 
five-dollar  Smith  and  the  reserved,  almost  hermit-like  Banneker 
was  the  subject  of  curious  and  amused  commentary  in  The 
Ledger  office.  Mallory  hazarded  a  humorous  guess  that  Ban 
neker  was  tutoring  Smith  in  the  finer  arts  of  journalism,  which 
was  not  so  far  amiss  as  its  proponent  might  have  supposed. 

The  Great  Heat  broke  several  evenings  later  in  a  drench  of 
rain  and  wind.  This,  being  in  itself  important  news,  kept  Ban 
neker  late  at  his  writing,  and  he  had  told  his  host  not  to  wait, 
that  he  would  join  him  on  the  yacht  sometime  about  midnight. 
So  Smith  had  gone  on  alone. 


The  Vision  225 

The  next  morning  Tommy  Burt,  lounging  into  the  office  from 
an  early  assignment,  approached  the  City  Desk  with  a  twinkle 
far  back  in  his  lively  eyes. 

"Hear  anything  of  a  shoot-fest  up  in  the  Bad  Lands  last 
night?"  he  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  replied  Mr.  Greenough.  "They're  getting  to  be 
everyday  occurrences  up  there.  Is  it  on  the  police  slips,  Mr. 
Mallory?" 

"No.  Nothing  in  that  line,"  answered  the  assistant,  looking 
over  his  assortment. 

"Police  are  probably  suppressing  it,"  opined  Burt. 

"Have  you  got  the  story?"  queried  Mr.  Greenough. 

"In  outline.  It  isn't  really  my  story." 

"Whose  is  it,  then?" 

"That's  part  of  it."  Tommy  Burt  leaned  against  Mallory's 
desk  and  appeared  to  be  revolving  some  delectable  thought  in 
his  mind. 

"Tommy,"  said  Mallory,  "they  didn't  open  that  com 
mittee  meeting  you've  been  attending  with  a  corkscrew,  did 
they?" 

"I'm  intoxicated  with  the  chaste  beauties  of  my  story,  which 
isn't  mine,"  returned  the  dreamily  smiling  Mr.  Burt.  "Here  it 
is,  boiled  down.  Guest  on  an  anchored  yacht  returning  late, 
sober,  through  the  mist.  Wharf-gang  shooting  craps  in  a  pier- 
shed.  They  size  him  up  and  go  to  it ;  six  of  'em.  Knives  and  one 
gun :  maybe  more.  The  old  game :  one  asks  for  the  time.  Another 
sneaks  up  behind  and  gives  the  victim  the  elbow-garrote.  The 
rest  rush  him.  Well,  they  got  as  far  as  the  garrote.  Everything 
lovely  and  easy.  Then  Mr.  Victim  introduces  a  few  specialties. 
Picks  a  gun  from  somewhere  around  his  shirt-front,  shoots  the 
garroter  over  his  shoulder ;  kills  the  man  in  front,  who  is  at  him 
with  a  stiletto,  ducks  a  couple  of  shots  from  the  gang,  and  lays 
out  two  more  of  'em.  The  rest  take  to  the  briny.  Tally:  two 
dead,  one  dying,  one  wounded,  Mr.  Guest  walks  to  the  shore  end, 
meets  two  patrolmen,  and  turns  in  his  gun.  '  I've  done  a  job  for 
you,'  says  he.  So  they  pinch  him.  He's  in  the  police  station,  in~ 
comunicado." 

Throughout  the  narrative,  Mr.  Greenough  had  thrown  in 


226  Success 

little,  purring  interjections  of  "Good!  Good!"  —  "Yes." — 
"Ah!  good!"  At  the  conclusion  Mallory  exclaimed! 

"  Moses !  That  is  a  story !  You  say  it  isn't  yours  ?  Why  not  ?  " 

"Because  it's  Banneker's." 

"Why?" 

"He's  the  guest  with  the  gun." 

Mallory  jumped  in  his  chair.  "Banneker!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Oh,  hell!"  he  added  disconsolately. 

"Takes  the  shine  out  of  the  story,  doesn't  it?"  observed  Burt 
with  a  malicious  smile. 

One  of  the  anomalous  superstitions  of  newspaperdom  is  that 
nothing  which  happens  to  a  reporter  in  the  line  of  his  work  is  or 
can  be  "big  news."  The  mere  fact  that  he  is  a  reporter  is  enough 
to  blight  the  story. 

"What  was  Banneker  doing  down  there?"  queried  Mr.  Green- 
ough. 

"Visiting  on  a  yacht." 

"Is  that  so?"  There  was  a  ray  of  hope  in  the  other's  face. 
The  glamour  of  yachting  association  might  be  made  to  cast  a 
radiance  about  the  event,  in  which  the  damnatory  fact  that  the 
principal  figure  was  a  mere  reporter  could  be  thrown  into  low 
relief.  Such  is  the  view  which  journalistic  snobbery  takes  of  the 
general  public's  snobbery.  "Whose  yacht?" 

Again  the  spiteful  little  smile  appeared  on  Burt's  lips  as  he 
dashed  the  rising  hope.  "Fentriss  Smith's." 

And  again  the  expletive  of  disillusion  burst  from  between 
Mallory's  teeth  as  he  saw  the  front-page  double-column  spread, 
a  type-specialty  of  the  usually  conservative  Ledger  upon  which 
it  prided  itself,  dwindle  to  a  carefully  handled  inside-page  three- 
quarter  of  a  column. 

"You  say  that  Mr.  Banneker  is  in  the  police  station?"  asked 
the  city  editor. 

"Or  at  headquarters.  They're  probably  working  the  third 
degree  on  him." 

"That  won't  do,"  declared  the  city  desk  incumbent,  with 
conviction.  He  caught  up  the  telephone,  got  the  paper's  City 
Hall  reporter,  and  was  presently  engaged  in  some  polite  but 


The  Vision  227 

pointed  suggestions  to  His  Honor  the  Mayor.  Shortly  after, 
Police  Headquarters  called ;  the  Chief  himself  was  on  the  wire. 

"The  Ledger  is  behind  Mr.  Banneker,  Chief/'  said  Mr. 
Greenough  crisply.  .  .  /'Carrying  concealed  weapons?  If  your 
men  in  that  precinct  were  fit  to  be  on  the  force,  there  would  be 
no  need  for  private  citizens  to  go  armed.. .  .You  get  the  point, 
I  see.  Good-bye." 

"Unless  I  am  a  bad  guesser  we'll  have  Banneker  back  here  by 
evening.  And  there'll  be  no  manhandling  in  his  case,"  Mallory 
said  to  Burt. 

Counsel  was  taken  of  Mr.  Gordon,  as  soon  as  that  astute 
managing  editor  arrived,  as  to  the  handling  of  the  difficult  situa 
tion.  The  Ledger,  always  cynically  intolerant  of  any  effort  to 
better  the  city  government,  as  savoring  of  "goo-gooism,"  which 
was  its  special  bete  noire,  could  not  well  make  the  shooting  a 
basis  for  a  general  attack  upon  police  laxity,  though  it  was  in 
this  that  lay  the  special  news  possibility  of  the  event.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  thing  was  far  too  sensational  to  be  ignored  or  too 
much  slurred. 

Andreas,  the  assistant  managing  editor,  in  charge  of  the 
paper's  make-up,  a  true  news-hound  with  an  untainted  delight  in 
the  unusual  and  striking,  no  matter  what  its  setting  might  be, 
who  had  been  called  into  the  conference,  advocated  "smearing 
it  all  over  the  front  page,  with  Banneker's  first-hand  statement 
for  the  lead  —  pictures  too." 

Him,  Mr.  Greenough,  impassive  joss  of  the  city  desk,  regarded 
with  a  chill  eye.  "One  reporter  visiting  another  gets  into  a 
muss  and  shoots  up  some  riverside  toughs,"  he  remarked  con 
temptuously.  "You  can  hardly  expect  our  public  to  get  greatly 
excited  over  that.  Are  we  going  into  the  business  of  exploiting 
our  own  cubs?" 

Thereupon  there  was  sharp  discussion  to  which  Mr.  Gordon 
put  an  end  by  remarking  that  the  evening  papers  would  doubt 
less  give  them  a  lead;  meantime  they  could  get  Banneker's 
version. 

First  to  come  in  was  The  Evening  New  Yorker,  the  most 
vapid  of  all  the  local  prints,  catering  chiefly  to  the  uptown  and 


228  Success 

shopping  element.  Its  heading  half-crossed  the  page  proclaim 
ing  "  Guest  of  Yachtsman  Shoots  Down  Thugs."  Nowhere  in 
the  article  did  it  appear  that  Banneker  had  any  connection  with 
the  newspaper  world.  He  was  made  to  appear  as  a  young  West 
erner  on  a  visit  to  the  yacht  of  a  millionaire  business  man, 
having  come  on  from  his  ranch  in  the  desert,  and  presumptively 
—  to  add  the  touch  of  godhead  —  a  millionaire  himself. 

"The  stinking  liars!"  said  Andreas. 

"That  settles  it,"  declared  Mr.  Gordon.  "We'll  give  the  facts 
plainly  and  without  sensationalism ;  but  all  the  facts." 

"Including  Mr.  Banneker's  connection  here?"  inquired  Mr. 
Greenough. 

"Certainly." 

The  other  evening  papers,  more  honest  than  The  Evening 
New  Yorker,  admitted,  though,  as  it  were,  regretfully  and  in  an 
inconspicuous  finale  to  their  accounts  that  the  central  figure  of 
the  sensation  was  only  a  reporter.  But  the  fact  of  his  being  guest 
on  a  yacht  was  magnified  and  glorified. 

At  five  o'clock  Banneker  arrived,  having  been  bailed  out  after 
some  difficulty,  for  the  police  were  frightened  and  ugly,  fore 
seeing  that  this  swift  vengeance  upon  the  notorious  gang,  meted 
out  by  a  private  hand,  would  throw  a  vivid  light  upon  their  own 
inefficiency  and  complaisance.  Happily  the  District  Attorney's 
office  was  engaged  in  one  of  its  periodical  feuds  with  the  Police 
Department  over  some  matter  of  graft  gone  astray,  and  was 
more  inclined  to  make  a  cat's-paw  than  a  victim  out  of  Banneker. 

Though  inwardly  strung  to  a  high  pitch,  for  the  police  officials 
had  kept  him  sleepless  through  the  night  by  their  habitual 
inquisition,  Banneker  held  himself  well  in  hand  as  he  went  to  the 
City  Desk  to  report  gravely  that  he  had  been  unable  to  come 
earlier. 

"So  we  understand,  Mr.  Banneker,"  said  Mr.  Greenough,  his 
placid  features  for  once  enlivened.  "That  was  a  good  job  you 
did.  I  congratulate  you." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Greenough,"  returned  Banneker.  "I  had  to 
do  it  or  get  done.  And,  at  that,  it  wasn't  much  of  a  trick.  They 
were  a  yellow  lot." 


The  Vision  229 


"Very  likely:  very  likely.  You've  handled  a  gun  before." 

"Only  in  practice." 

"Ever  shot  anybody  before?" 

"No,  sir." 

"How  does  it  feel?"  inquired  the  city  editor,  turning  his  pale 
eyes  on  the  other  and  fussing  nervously  with  his  fingers. 

"At  first  you  want  to  go  on  killing,"  answered  Banneker. 
"Then,  when  it's  over,  there's  a  big  let-down.  It  doesn't  seem 
as  if  it  were  you."  He  paused  and  added  boyishly :  "The  eve 
ning  papers  are  making  an  awful  fuss  over  it." 

"What  do  you  expect?  It  isn't  every  day  that  a  Wild 
West  Show  with  real  bullets  and  blood  is  staged  in  this  effete 
town." 

"Of  course  I  knew  there'd  be  a  kick-up  about  it,"  admitted 
Banneker.  "But,  some  way  —  well,  in  the  West,  if  a  gang  gets 
shot  up,  there's  quite  a  bit  of  talk  for  a  while,  and  the  boys  want 
to  buy  the  drinks  for  the  fellow  that  does  it,  but  it  doesn't  spread 
all  over  the  front  pages.  I  suppose  I  still  have  something  of  the 
Western  view ....  How  much  did  you  want  of  this,  Mr.  Green- 
ough?"  he  concluded  in  a  business-like  tone. 

"You  are  not  doing  the  story,  Mr.  Banneker.  Tommy  Burt  is." 

"I'm  not  writing  it?  Not  any  of  it?" 

"Certainly  not.  You're  the  hero" — there  was  a  hint  of 
elongation  of  the  first  syllable  which  might  have  a  sardonic 
connotation  from  those  pale  and  placid  lips — "not  the  historian. 
Burt  will  interview  you." 

"  A  Patriot  reporter  has  already.     I  gave  him  a  statement." 

Mr.  Greenough  frowned.  "It  would  have  been  as  well  to  have 
waited.  However..." 

"Oh,  Banneker,"  put  in  Mallory,  "Judge  Enderby  wants  you 
to  call  at  his  office." 

"Who's  Judge  Enderby?" 

"Chief  Googler  of  the  Goo-Goos;  the  Law  Enforcement 
Society  lot.  They  call  him  the  ablest  honest  lawyer  in  New  York. 
He's  an  old  crab.  Hates  the  newspapers,  particularly  us." 

"Why?" 

"He  cherishes  some  theory,"  said  Mr.  Greenough  in  his  most 


230  Success 

toneless  voice,  "that  a  newspaper  ought  to  be  conducted  solely 
in  the  interests  of  people  like  himself." 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  go  chasing  around  to  see 
him?" 

"That's  as  you  choose.  He  doesn't  see  reporters  often.  Per 
haps  it  would  be  as  well." 

"His  outfit  are  after  the  police,"  explained  Mallory.  "That's 
what  he  wants  you  for.  It's  part  of  their  political  game.  Always 
politics." 

"Well,  he  can  wait  until  to-morrow,  I  suppose,"  remarked 
Banneker  indifferently. 

Greenough  examined  him  with  impenetrable  gaze.  This  was 
a  very  cavalier  attitude  toward  Judge  Willis  Enderby.  For 
Enderby  was  a  man  of  real  power.  He  might  easily  have  been 
the  most  munificently  paid  corporation  attorney  in  the  country 
but  for  the  various  kinds  of  business  which  he  would  not,  in  his 
own  homely  phrase,  "poke  at  with  a  burnt  stick."  Notwith 
standing  his  prejudices,  he  was  confidential  legal  adviser,  in 
personal  and  family  affairs,  to  a  considerable  percentage  of  the 
important  men  and  women  of  New  York.  He  was  supposed  to 
be  the  only  man  who  could  handle  that  bull-elephant  of  finance, 
ruler  of  Wall  Street,  and,  when  he  chose  to  give  it  his  contemptu 
ous  attention,  dictator,  through  his  son  and  daughters,  of  the 
club  and  social  world  of  New  York,  old  Poultney  Masters,  in  the 
apoplectic  rages  into  which  the  slightest  thwart  to  his  will 
plunged  him.  To  Enderby's  adroitness  the  financier  (one  of 
whose  pet  vanities  was  a  profound  and  wholly  baseless  faith  in 
himself  as  a  connoisseur  of  art)  owed  it  that  he  had  not  become 
a  laughing-stock  through  his  purchase  of  a  pair  of  particularly 
flagrant  Murillos,  planted  for  his  special  behoof  by  a  gang  of 
clever  Italian  swindlers.  Rumor  had  it  that  when  Enderby  had 
privately  summed  up  his  client's  case  for  his  client's  benefit  be 
fore  his  client  as  referee,  in  these  words:  "And,  Mr.  Masters,  if 
you  act  again  in  these  matters  without  consulting  me,  you  must 
find  another  lawyer;  I  cannot  afford  fools  for  clients" — they 
had  to  call  in  a  physician  and  resort  to  the  ancient  expedient  oi 
bleeding,  to  save  the  great  man's  cerebral  arteries  from  bursting. 


The  Vision  231 

Toward  the  public  press,  Enderby's  attitude  was  the  exact 
reverse  of  Horace  Vanney's.  For  himself,  he  unaffectedly  dis 
liked  and  despised  publicity;  for  the  interests  which  he  repre 
sented,  he  delegated  it  to  others.  He  would  rarely  be  inter 
viewed;  his  attitude  toward  the  newspapers  was  consistently 
repellent.  Consequently  his  infrequent  utterances  were  treas 
ured  as  pearls,  and  given  a  prominence  far  above  those  of  the  too 
eager  and  over-friendly  Mr.  Vanney,  who,  incidentally,  was  his 
associate  on  the  directorate  of  the  Law  Enforcement  Society. 
The  newspapers  did  not  like  Willis  Enderby  any  more  than  he 
liked  them.  But  they  cherished  for  him  an  unrequited  respect. 

That  a  reporter,  a  nobody  of  yesterday  whose  association  with 
The  Ledger  constituted  his  only  claim  to  any  status  whatever, 
should  profess  indifference  to  a  summons  from  a  man  of  Ender 
by's  position,  suggested  affectation  to  Mr.  Greenough's  sus 
picions.  Young  Mr.  Banneker's  head  was  already  swelling,  was 
it?  Very  well;  in  the  course  of  time  and  his  duties,  Mr.  Green- 
ough  would  apply  suitable  remedies. 

If  Banneker  were,  indeed,  taking  a  good  conceit  of  himself 
from  the  conspicuous  position  achieved  so  unexpectedly,  the 
morning  papers  did  nothing  to  allay  it.  Most  of  them  slurred 
over,  as  lightly  as  possible,  the  fact  of  his  journalistic  connection ; 
as  in  the  evening  editions,  the  yacht  feature  was  kept  to  the  fore. 
There  were  two  exceptions.  The  Ledger  itself,  in  a  colorless  and 
straightforward  article,  frankly  identified  the  hero  of  the  episode, 
in  the  introductory  sentence,  as  a  member  of  its  city  staff,  and 
his  host  of  the  yacht  as  another  journalist.  But  there  was  one 
notable  omission  about  which  Banneker  determined  to  ask 
Tommy  Burt  as  soon  as  he  could  see  him.  The  Patriot,  most 
sensational  of  the  morning  issues,  splurged  wildly  under  the 
caption,  "  Yacht  Guest  Cleans  Out  Gang  Which  Cowed  Police." 
The  Sphere,  in  an  editorial,  demanded  a  sweeping  and  honest 
investigation  of  the  conditions  which  made  life  unsafe  in  the 
greatest  of  cities.  The  Sphere  was  always  demanding  sweeping 
and  honest  investigations,  and  not  infrequently  getting  them. 
In  Greenough's  opinion  this  undesirable  result  was  likely  to  be 
achieved  now.  To  Mr.  Gordon  he  said : 


232  Success 

"We  ought  to  shut  down  all  we  can  on  the  Banneker  follow- 
up.  An  investigation  with  our  man  as  prosecuting  witness  would 
put  us  in  the  position  of  trying  to  reform  the  police,  and  would 
play  into  the  hands  of  the  Enderby  crowd." 

The  managing  editor  shook  a  wise  and  grizzled  head.  "If  The 
Patriot  keeps  up  its  whooping  and  The  Sphere  its  demanding, 
the  administration  will  have  to  do  something.  After  all,  Mr. 
Greenough,  things  have  become  pretty  unendurable  in  the 
Murder  Precinct." 

"That's  true.  But  the  signed  statement  of  Banneker's  in  The 
Patriot  —  it's  really  an  interview  faked  up  as  a  statement  —  is  a 
savage  attack  on  the  whole  administration." 

"I  understand,"  remarked  Mr.  Gordon,  "that  they  were 
going  to  beat  him  up  scientifically  in  the  station  house  when 
Smith  came  in  and  scared  them  out  of  it." 

"Yes.  Banneker  is  pretty  angry  over  it.  You  can't  blame  him. 
But  that's  no  reason  why  we  should  alienate  the  city  adminis 
tration.  .  . .  Then  you  think,  Mr.  Gordon,  that  we'll  have  to  keep 
the  story  running?" 

"I  think,  Mr.  Greenough,  that  we'll  have  to  give  the  news," 
answered  the  managing  editor  austerely.  "Where  is  Banneker 
now?" 

"With  Judge  Enderby,  I  believe.  In  case  of  an  investigation 
he  won't  be  much  use  to  us  until  it's  over." 

"Can't  be  helped,"  returned  Mr.  Gordon  serenely.  "We'll 
stand  by  our  man." 

Banneker  had  gone  to  the  old-fashioned  offices  of  Enderby  & 
Enderby,  in  a  somewhat  inimical  frame  of  mind.  Expectant  of 
an  invitation  to  aid  the  Law  Enforcement  Society  in  cleaning  up 
a  pest-hole  of  crime,  he  was  half  determined  to  have  as  little  to 
do  with  it  as  possible.  Overnight  consideration  had  developed  in 
him  the  theory  that  the  function  of  a  newspaper  is  informative, 
not  reformative;  that  when  a  newspaper  man  has  correctly 
adduced  and  frankly  presented  the  facts,  his  social  as  well  as  his 
professional  duty  is  done.  Others  might  hew  out  the  trail  thus 
blazed ;  the  reporter,  bearing  his  searchlight,  should  pass  on  to 
other  dark  spots.  All  his  theories  evaporated  as  soon  as  he  con- 


The  Vision  233 


fronted  Judge  Enderby,  forgotten  in  the  interest  inspired  by  the 
man. 

A  portrait  painter  once  said  of  Willis  Enderby  that  his  face 
was  that  of  a  saint,  illumined,  not  by  inspiration,  but  by  shrewd 
ness.  With  his  sensitiveness  to  beauty  of  whatever  kind,  Banne- 
ker  felt  the  extraordinary  quality  of  the  face,  beneath  its  grim 
outline,  interpreting  it  from  the  still  depth  of  the  quiet  eyes 
rather  than  from  the  stern  mouth  and  rather  tyrannous  nose. 
He  was  prepared  for  an  abrupt  and  cold  manner,  and  was  sur 
prised  when  the  lawyer  rose  to  shake  hands,  giving  him  a  greet 
ing  of  courtly  congratulation  upon  his  courage  and  readiness.  If 
the  purpose  of  this  was  to  get  Banneker  to  expand,  as  he  sus 
pected,  it  failed.  The  visitor  sensed  the  cold  reserve  behind  the 
smile. 

"Would  you  be  good  enough  to  run  through  this  document?" 
requested  the  lawyer,  motioning  Banneker  to  a  seat  opposite 
himself,  and  handing  him  a  brief  synopsis  of  what  the  Law 
Enforcement  Society  hoped  to  prove  regarding  police  laxity. 

Exercising  that  double  faculty  of  mind  which  later  became  a 
part  of  the  Banneker  legend  in  New  York  journalism,  the  reader, 
whilst  absorbing  the  main  and  quite  simple  points  of  the  report, 
recalled  an  instance  in  which  an  Atkinson  &  St.  Philip  ticket 
agent  had  been  maneuvered  into  a  posture  facing  a  dazzling 
sunset,  and  had  adjusted  his  vision  to  find  it  focused  upon  the 
barrel  of  a  45.  Without  suspecting  the  Judge  of  hold-up  designs, 
he  nevertheless  developed  a  parallel.  Leaving  his  chair  he  walked 
over  and  sat  by  the  window.  Halfway  through  the  document,  he 
quietly  laid  it  aside  and  returned  the  lawyer's  studious  regard. 

"Have  you  finished?"  asked  Judge  Enderby. 

"No." 

"You  do  not  find  it  interesting?" 

"Less  interesting  than  your  idea  in  giving  it  to  me." 

"What  do  you  conceive  that  to  have  been?" 

By  way  of  reply,  Banneker  cited  the  case  of  Tim  Lake,  the 
robbed  agent.  "I  think,"  he  added  with  a  half  smile,  "that  you 
and  I  will  do  better  in  the  open." 

" I  think  so,  too.  Mr.  Banneker,  are  you  honest?  " 


234  Success 

"Where  I  came  from,  that  would  be  regarded  as  a  trouble- 
hunter's  question." 

"I  ask  you  to  regard  it  as  important  and  take  it  without 
offense. "'. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  returned  Banneker  gravely. 
"  We'll  see.  Honest,  you  say.  Are  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  why  do  you  begin  by  doubting  the  honesty  of  a  stranger 
against  whom  you  know  nothing? " 

"Legal  habit,  I  dare  say.  Fortified,  in  this  case,  by  your 
association  with  The  Ledger." 

"You  haven't  a  high  opinion  of  my  paper?" 

"The  very  highest,  of  its  adroitness  and  expertness.  It  can 
make  the  better  cause  appear  the  worse  with  more  skill  than  any 
other  journal  in  America." 

"I  thought  that  was  the  specialty  of  lawyers." 

Judge  Enderby  accepted  the  touch  with  a  smile. 

"A  lawyer  is  an  avowed  special  pleader.  He  represents  one 
side.  A  newspaper  is  supposed  to  be  without  bias  and  to  present 
the  facts  for  the  information  of  its  one  client,  the  public.  You  will 
readily  appreciate  the  difference." 

"I  do.  Then  you  don't  consider  The  Ledger  honest." 

Judge  Enderby's  composed  glance  settled  upon  the  morning's 
issue,  spread  upon  his  desk.  "  I  have,  I  assume,  the  same  opinion 
of  The  Ledger's  honesty  that  you  have." 

"Do  you  mind  explaining  that  to  me  quite  simply,  so  that  I 
shall  be  sure  to  understand  it?"  invited  BanneKer. 

"You  have  read  the  article  about  your  exploit  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Is  that  honest?" 

"It  is  as  accurate  a  job  as  I've  ever  known  done." 

"Granted.  Is  it  honest?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  other  after  a  pause.  "I  intend 
to  find  out." 

"You  intend  to  find  out  why  it  is  so  reticent  on  every  point 
that  might  impugn  the  police,  I  take  it.  I  could  tell  you ;  but 
yours  is  the  better  way.  You  gave  the  same  interview  to  your 


The  Vision  235 

own  paper  that  you  gave  to  The  Patriot,  I  assume.  By  the  way, 
what  a  commentary  on  journalism  that  the  most  scurrilous 
sheet  in  New  York  should  have  given  the  fullest  and  frankest 
treatment  to  the  subject ;  a  paper  written  by  the  dregs  of  Park 
Row  for  the  reading  of  race-track  touts  and  ignorant  servant 
girls!" 

"Yes;  I  gave  them  the  same  interview.  It  may  have  been 
crowded  out — " 

"For  lack  of  space,"  supplied  Enderby  in  a  tone  which  the 
other  heartily  disliked.  "Mr.  Banneker,  I  thought  that  this  was 
to  be  in  the  open." 

"I'm  wrong,"  confessed  the  other.  "I'll  know  by  this  eve 
ning  why  the  police  part  was  handled  that  way,  and  if  it  was 
policy  —  He  stopped,  considering. 

"Well?"  prompted  the  other. 

"I'll  go  through  to  the  finish  with  your  committee." 

"You're  as  good  as  pledged,"  retorted  the  lawyer.  "I  shall  ex 
pect  to  hear  from  you." 

As  soon  as  he  could  find  Tommy  Burt,  Banneker  put  to  him 
the  direct  question.  "What  is  the  matter  with  the  story  as  I  gave 
it  to  you?" 

Burt  assumed  an  air  of  touching  innocence.  "The  story  had  to 
be  handled  with  great  care,"  he  explained  blandly. 

"Come  off,  Tommy.  Didn't  you  write  the  police  part?" 

Tommy  Burt's  eyes  denoted  the  extreme  of  candor.  "It  was 
suggested  to  me  that  your  views  upon  the  police,  while  interest 
ing  and  even  important,  might  be  misunderstood." 

"Is  that  so?  And  who  made  the  suggestion?" 

"An  all- wise  city  desk." 

"Thank  you,  Tommy." 

"The  Morning  Ledger, "  volunteered  Tommy  Burt,  "has  a 
high  and  well-merited  reputation  for  its  fidelity  to  the  principles 
of  truth  and  fairness  and  to  the  best  interests  of  the  reading 
public.  It  never  gives  the  public  any  news  to  play  with  that  it 
thinks  the  dear  little  thing  ought  not  to  have.  Did  you  say  any 
thing  ?  No  ?  Well ;  you  meant  it.  You're  wrong.  The  Ledger  is 
the  highest-class  newspaper  in  New  York.  We  are  the  Elect ! " 


236  Success 

In  his  first  revulsion  of  anger,  Banneker  was  for  going  to  Mr. 
Greenough  and  having  it  out  with  him.  If  it  meant  his  resigna 
tion,  very  good.  He  was  ready  to  look  his  job  in  the  eye  and  tell 
it  to  go  to  hell.  Turning  the  matter  over  in  his  mind,  however, 
he  decided  upon  another  course.  So  far  as  the  sensational  episode 
of  which  he  was  the  central  figure  went,  he  would  regard  himself 
consistently  as  a  private  citizen  with  no  responsibility  whatso 
ever  to  The  Ledger.  Let  the  paper  print  or  suppress  what  it 
chose ;  his  attitude  toward  it  would  be  identical  with  his  attitude 
toward  the  other  papers.  Probably  the  office  powers  would 
heartily  disapprove  of  his  having  any  dealings  with  Enderby  and 
his  Law  Enforcement  Society.  Let  them !  He  telephoned  a  brief 
but  final  message  to  Enderby  &  Enderby.  When,  late  that  night, 
Mr.  Gordon  called  him  over  and  suggested  that  it  was  highly 
desirable  to  let  the  whole  affair  drop  out  of  public  notice  as  soon 
as  the  startling  facts  would  permit,  he  replied  that  Judge 
Enderby  had  already  arranged  to  push  an  investigation. 

"Doubtless/'  observed  the  managing  editor.  "It  is  his  spe 
cialty.  But  without  your  evidence  they  can't  go  far." 

"They  can  have  my  evidence." 

Mr.  Gordon,  who  had  been  delicately  balancing  his  letter- 
opener,  now  delivered  a  whack  of  such  unthinking  ferocity  upon 
his  fat  knuckle  as  to  produce  a  sharp  pang.  He  gazed  in  surprise 
and  reproach  upon  the  aching  thumb  and  something  of  those 
emotions  informed  the  regard  which  he  turned  slowly  upon 
Banneker. 

Mr.  Gordon's  frame  of  mind  was  unenviable.  The  Inside  Room, 
moved  by  esoteric  considerations,  political  and,  more  remotely, 
financial,  had  issued  to  him  a  managerial  ukase ;  no  police  investi 
gation  if  it  could  be  avoided.  Now,  news  was  the  guise  in  which 
Mr.  Gordon  sincerely  worshiped  Truth,  the  God.  But  Mammon, 
in  the  Inside  Room,  held  the  purse-strings  Mr.  Gordon  had  arrived 
at  his  honorable  and  well-paid  position,  not  by  wisdom  alone,  but 
also  by  compromise.  Here  was  a  situation  where  news  must  give 
way  to  the  more  essential  interests  of  the  paper. 

"Mr.  Banneker,"  he  said,  "that  investigation  will  take  a  great 
deal  of  your  tune ;  more,  I  fear,  than  the  paper  can  afford  to  give 
you." 


The  Vision  237 

"They  will  arrange  to  put  me  on  the  stand  in  the  mornings." 

"  Further,  any  connection  between  a  Ledger  man  and  the 
Enderby  Committee  is  undesirable  and  hfjudicious." 

"I'm  sorry,"  answered  Banneker  simply.  "I've  said  I'd  go 
through  with  it." 

Mr.  Gordon  selected  a  fresh  knuckle  for  his  modified  drum 
ming.  "Have  you  considered  your  duty  to  the  paper,  Mr. 
Banneker?  If  not,  I  advise  you  to  do  so."  The  careful  manner, 
more  than  the  words,  implied  threat. 

Banneker  leaned  forward  as  if  for  a  confidential  communica 
tion,  as  he  lapsed  into  a  gross  Westernism : 

"  Mr.  Gordon,  I  am  paying  for  this  round  of  drinks." 

Somehow  the  managing  editor  received  the  impression  that 
this  remark,  delivered  in  just  that  tone  of  voice  and  in  its  own 
proper  environment,  was  usually  accompanied  by  a  smooth 
motion  of  the  hand  toward  the  pistol  holster. 

Banneker,  after  asking  whether  there  was  anything  more,  and 
receiving  a  displeased  shake  of  the  head,  went  away. 

"Now,"  said  he  to  the  waiting  Tommy  Burt,  "they'll  prob 
ably  fire  me." 

"Let  'em!  You  can  get  plenty  of  other  jobs.  But  I  don't 
think  they  will.  Old  Gordon  is  really  with  you.  It  makes  him 
sick  to  have  to  doctor  news." 

Sleepless  until  almost  morning,  Banneker  reviewed  in  smallest 
detail  his  decision  and  the  situation  to  which  it  had  led.  He 
thought  that  he  had  taken  the  right  course.  He  felt  that  Miss 
Camilla  would  approve.  Judge  Enderby's  personality,  he  recog 
nized,  had  exerted  some  influence  upon  his  decision.  He  had 
conceived  for  the  lawyer  an  instinctive  respect  and  liking.  There 
was  about  him  a  power  of  attraction,  not  readily  definable,  but 
seeming  mysteriously  to  assert  some  hidden  claim  from  the  past. 

Where  had  he  seen  that  fine  and  still  face  before? 


CHAPTER  IX 

SEQUELS  of  a  surprising  and  diverse  character  followed  Banne- 
ker's  sudden  fame.  The  first  to  manifest  itself  was  disconcerting. 
On  the  Wednesday  following  the  fight  on  the  pier,  Mrs.  Brashear  ^ 
intercepted  him  in  the  hallway. 

"I'm  sure  we  all  admire  what  you  did,  Mr.  Banneker,"  she 
began,  in  evident  trepidation. 

The  subject  of  this  eulogy  murmured  something  deprecatory. 

"It  was  very  brave  of  you.  Most  praiseworthy.  We  appreci 
ate  it,  all  of  us.  Yes,  indeed.  It's  very  painful,  Mr.  Banneker. 
I  never  expected  to  —  to  —  indeed,  I  couldn't  have  believed  — " 
Mrs.  Brashear's  plump  little  hands  made  gestures  so  fluttery 
and  helpless  that  her  lodger  was  moved  to  come  to  her  aid. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Brashear?  What's  troubling  you?" 

"If  you  could  make  it  convenient,"  said  she  tremulously, 
"when  your  month  is  up.  I  shouldn't  think  of  asking  you  before." 

"Are  you  giving  me  notice?"  he  inquired  in  amazement. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  please.  The  notoriety,  the  —  the  —  your 
being  arrested.  You  were  arrested,  weren't  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes.  But  the  coroner's  jury  cleared  — 

"Such  a  thing  never  happened  to  any  of  my  guests  before. 
To  have  my  house  in  the  police  records,"  wept  Mrs.  Brashear. 
"Really,  Mr.  Banneker,  really!  You  can't  know  how  it  hurts 
one's  pride." 

"I'll  go  next  week,"  said  the  evicted  one,  divided  between 
amusement  and  annoyance,  and  retired  to  escape  another  out 
burst  of  grief. 

Now  that  the  matter  was  presented  to  him,  he  was  rather  glad 
to  be  leaving.  Quarters  somewhere  in  mid- town,  more  in  conso 
nance  with  his  augmented  income,  suggested  themselves  as 
highly  desirable.  Since  the  affray  he  had  been  the  object  of  irk 
some  attentions  from  his  fellow  lodgers.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
whether  he  found  the  more  unendurable  young  Wickert's  curi 
osity  regarding  details,  Hainer's  pompous  adulation,  or  Lam- 


The  Vision  239 

bert's  admiring  but  jocular  attitude.  The  others  deemed  it  their 
duty  never  to  refrain  from  some  reference  to  the  subject  wherever 
and  whenever  they  encountered  him.  The  one  exception  was 
Miss  Westlake.  She  congratulated  him  once,  quietly  but  with 
warm  sincerity ;  and  when  next  she  came  to  his  door,  dealt  with 
another  topic. 

"Mrs.  Brashear  tells  me  that  you  are  leaving,  Mr.  Banneker." 

"Did  she  tell  you  why?  That  she  has  fired  me  out?" 

"No.  She  didn't." 

Banneker,  a  little  surprised  and  touched  at  the  landlady's 
reticence,  explained. 

"Ah,  well,"  commented  Miss  Westlake,  "you  would  soon  have 
outgrown  us  in  any  case." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  Where  one  lives  doesn't  so  much  matter. 
And  I'm  a  creature  of  habit." 

"I  think  that  you  are  going  to  be  a  very  big  man,  Mr.  Banne 
ker." 

"Do  you?"  He  smiled  down  at  her.  "Now,  why?" 

She  did  not  answer  his  smile.  "You've  got  power,"  she  replied. 
"And  you  have  mastered  your  medium  —  or  gone  far  toward  it." 

"I'm  grateful  for  your  good  opinion,"  he  began  courteously; 
but  she  broke  in  on  him,  shaking  her  head. 

"If  it  were  mine  alone,  it  wouldn't  matter.  It'r  the  opinion  of 
those  who  know.  Mr.  Banneker,  I've  been  taking  a  liberty." 

"You're  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  do  that,  I  should 
think,"  he  replied  smilingly. 

"But  I  have.  You  may  remember  my  asking  you  once  when 
those  little  sketches  that  I  retyped  so  often  were  to  be  published." 

"Yes.  I  never  did  anything  with  them." 

"I  did.  I  showed  them  to  Violet  Thornborough.  She  is  an 
old  friend." 

Ignorant  of  the  publication  world  outside  of  Park  Row, 
Banneker  did  not  recognize  a  name,  unknown  to  the  public, 
which  in  the  inner  literary  world  connoted  all  that  was  finest, 
most  perceptive,  most  discriminating  and  helpful  in  selective 
criticism.  Miss  Thornborough  had  been  the  first  to  see  and 
foster  half  of  the  glimmering  and  feeble  radiance*  which  had 


240  Success 

later  grown  to  be  the  manifest  lights  of  the  magazine  and  book 
world,  thanks  largely  to  her  aid  and  encouragement.  The  next 
name  mentioned  by  Miss  Westlake  was  well  enough  known  to 
Banneker,  however.  The  critic,  it  appears,  had,  with  her  own 
hands,  borne  the  anonymous,  typed  copies  to  the  editorial  sanc 
tum  of  the  foremost  of  monthlies,  and,  claiming  a  prerogative, 
refused  to  move  aside  from  the  pathway  of  orderly  business  until 
the  Great  Gaines  himself,  editor  and  autocrat  of  the  publication, 
had  read  at  least  one  of  them.  So  the  Great  Gaines  indulged 
Miss  Thornborough  by  reading  one.  He  then  indulged  himself 
by  reading  three  more. 

"Your  goose,"  he  pronounced,  "is  not  fledged ;  but  there  may 
be  a  fringe  of  swan  feathers.  Bring  him  to  see  me." 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  of  who,  what,  or  where  he  is," 
answered  the  insistent  critic. 

"Then  hire  a  detective  at  our  expense,"  smiled  the  editor. 
"And,  please,  as  you  go,  can't  you  lure  away  with  you  Mr. 
Harvey  Wheelwright,  our  most  popular  novelist,  now  in  the 
reception-room  wishing  us  to  publish  his  latest  enormity?  Us!" 
concluded  the  Great  Gaines  sufficiently. 

Having  related  the  episode  to  its  subject,  Miss  Westlake  said 
diffidently:  "Do  you  think  it  was  inexcusably  impertinent  of 
me?" 

"No.  I  think  it  was  very  kind." 

"Then  you'll  go  to  see  Mr.  Gaines?" 

"One  of  these  days.  When  I  get  out  of  this  present  scrape. 
And  I  hope  you'll  keep  on  copying  my  Sunday  stuff  after  I  leave. 
Nobody  else  would  be  so  patient  with  my  dreadful  handwriting." 

She  gave  him  a  glance  and  a  little  flush  of  thankfulness. 
Matters  had  begun  to  improve  with  Miss  Westlake.  But  it  was 
due  to  Banneker  that  she  had  won  through  her  time  of  despera 
tion.  Now,  through  his  suggestion,  she  was  writing  successfully, 
quarter  and  half  column  "general  interest"  articles  for  the 
Woman's  Page  of  the  Sunday  Ledger.  If  she  could  in  turn  help 
Banneker  to  recognition,  part  of  her  debt  would  be  paid.  As  for 
him,  he  was  interested  in,  but  not  greatly  expectant  of,  the 
Gaines  invitation.  Still,  if  he  were  cast  adrift  from  The  Ledger 


The  Vision  241 

because  of  activity  in  the  coming  police  inquiry,  there  was  a 
possible  port  in  the  magazine  world. 

Meantime  there  pressed  the  question  of  a  home.  Cressey 
ought  to  afford  help  on  that.  He  called  the  gilded  youth  on  the 
telephone. 

"Hello,  old  fire-eater!"  cried  Cressey.  "Some  little  hero, 

aren't  you !  Bully  work,  my  boy.  I'm  proud  to  know  you 

What;  quarters?  Easiest  thing  you  know.  I've  got  the  very 
thing  —  just  like  a  real-estate  agent.  Let's  see ;  this  is  your 
Monday  at  Sherry's,  isn't  it?  All  right.  I'll  meet  you  there." 

Providentially,  as  it  might  appear,  a  friend  of  Cressey's,  hav 
ing  secured  a  diplomatic  appointment,  was  giving  up  his  bache 
lor  apartment  in  the  select  and  central  Regalton. 

"Cheap  as  dirt,"  said  the  enthusiastic  Cressey,  beaming  at 
Banneker  over  his  cocktail  that  evening.  "Two  rooms  and  bath ; 
fully  furnished,  and  you  can  get  it  for  eighteen  hundred  a  year." 

"Quite  a  raise  from  the  five  dollars  a  week  I've  been  paying," 
smiled  Banneker. 

"Pshaw!  You've  got  to  live  up  to  your  new  reputation. 
You're  somebody,  now,  Banneker.  All  New  York  is  talking 
about  you.  Why,  I'm  afraid  to  say  I  know  you  for  fear  they'll 
think  I'm  bragging." 

"All  of  which  doesn't  increase  my  income,"  pointed  out  the 
other. 

"It  will.  Just  wait.  One  way  or  another  you'll  capitalize  that 
reputation.  That's  the  way  New  York  is." 

"That  isn't  the  way  I  am,  however.  I'll  capitalize  my  brains 
and  ability,  if  I've  got  'em ;  not  my  gun-play." 

"Your  gun-play  will  advertise  your  brains  and  ability,  then," 
retorted  Cressey.  "Nobody  expects  you  to  make  a  princely  in 
come  shooting  up  toughs  on  the  water-front.  But  your  having 
done  it  will  put  you  in  the  lime-light  where  people  will  notice 
you.  And  being  noticed  is  the  beginning  of  success  in  this- 
man's-town.  I'm  not  sure  it  isn't  the  end,  too.  Just  see  how  the 
head  waiter  fell  all  over  himself  when  you  came  in.  I  expect  he's 
telling  that  bunch  at  the  long  table  yonder  who  you  are,  now." 

"Let  him,"  returned  Banneker  comfortably,  his  long-bred 


242  Success 

habit  of  un-self-consciousness  standing  him  in  good  stead. 
"They'll  all  forget  it  soon  enough." 

As  he  glanced  over  at  the  group  around  the  table,  the  man  who 
was  apparently  acting  as  host  caught  his  eye  and  nodded  in 
friendly  fashion. 

"Oh,  you  know  Marrineal,  do  you?"  asked  Cressey  in  sur 
prise. 

"  I've  seen  him,  but  I've  never  spoken  to  him.  He  dines  some 
times  in  a  queer  little  restaurant  way  downtown,  just  off  the 
Swamp.  Who  is  he,  anyway  ?  " 

"Puzzle.  Nobody  in  the  clubs  knows  him.  He's  a  spender. 
Bit  of  a  rounder,  too,  I  expect.  Plays  the  Street,  and  beats  it, 
too." 

"Who's  the  little  beauty  next  him?" 

"  You  a  rising  light  of  Park  Row,  and  not  know  Betty  Raleigh  ? 
She  killed  Jem  dead  in  London  in  romantic  comedy  and  now  she's 
come  back  here  to  repeat." 

"Oh,  yes.  Opening  to-night,  isn't  she?  I've  got  a  seat."  He 
looked  over  at  Marrineal,  who  was  apparently  protesting  against 
his  neighbor's  reversed  wine-glass.  "So  that's  Mr.  Marrineal's 
little  style  of  game,  is  it  ?  "  He  spoke  crudely,  for  the  apparition 
of  the  girl  was  quite  touching  in  its  youth,  and  delight,  and 
candor  of  expression,  whereas  he  had  read  into  Marrineal's  long, 
handsome,  and  blandly  mature  face  a  touch  of  the  satyr.  He 
resented  the  association. 

"No ;  it  isn't,"  replied  Cressey  promptly.  "If  it  is,  he's  in  the 
wrong  pew.  Miss  Raleigh  is  straight  as  they  make  'em,  from  all  I 
hear." 

"She  looks  it,"  admitted  Banneker. 

"At  that,  she's  in  a  rather  sporty  lot.  Do  you  know  that  chap 
three  seats  to  her  left?" 

Banneker  considered  the  diner,  a  round-faced,  high-colored, 
youthful  man  of  perhaps  thirty-five,  with  a  roving  and  merry  eye. 
"No,"  he  answered.  "I  never  saw  him  before." 

"That's  Del  Eyre,"  remarked  Cressey  casually,  and  appear 
ing  not  to  look  at  Banneker. 

"A  friend  of  yours?"  The  indifference  of  the  tone  indicated 


The  Vision  243 

to  his  companion  either  that  Banneker  did  not  identify  Delavan 
Eyre  by  his  marriage,  or  that  he  maintained  extraordinary  con 
trol  over  himself,  or  that  the  queer,  romantic  stories  of  lo  Wei- 
land's  "passion  in  the  desert"  were  gross  exaggerations.  Cressey 
inclined  to  the  latter  belief. 

"Not  specially,"  he  answered  the  question.  "He  belongs  to  a 
couple  of  my  clubs.  Everybody  likes  Del ;  even  Mrs.  Del.  But 
his  pace  is  too  swift  for  me.  Just  at  present  he  is  furnishing 
transportation,  sixty  horse-power,  for  Tarantina,  the  dancer 
who  is  featured  in  Betty  Raleigh's  show." 

"Is  she  over  there  with  them?" 

"Oh,  no.  She  wouldn't  be.  It  isn't  as  sporty  as  all  that."  He 
rose  to  shake  hands  with  a  short,  angular  young  man,  dressed  to 
a  perfection  as  accurate  as  Banneker's  own,  and  excelling  him  in 
one  distinctive  touch,  a  coat-flower  of  gold-and- white  such  as  no 
other  in  New  York  could  wear,  since  only  in  one  conservatory 
was  that  special  orchid  successfully  grown.  By  it  Banneker 
recognized  Poultney  Masters,  Jr.,  the  son  and  heir  of  the  tyran 
nous  old  financier  who  had  for  years  bullied  and  browbeaten 
New  York  to  his  wayward  old  heart's  content.  In  his  son  there 
was  nothing  of  the  bully,  but  through  the  amiability  of  manner 
Banneker  could  feel  a  quiet  force.  Cressey  introduced  them. 

"We're  just  having  coffee,"  said  Banneker.  "Will  you  join 

MS?" 

"Thank  you;  I  must  go  back  to  my  party.  I  came  over  to 
express  my  personal  obligation  to  you  for  cleaning  out  that  gang 
of  wharf-rats.  My  boat  anchors  off  there.  I  hope  to  see  you 
aboard  her  sometime." 

"You  owe  me  no  thanks,"  returned  Banneker  good-humoredly 
"  What  I  did  was  to  save  my  own  precious  skin." 

"The  effect  was  the  same.  After  this  the  rats  will  suspect 
every  man  of  being  a  Banneker  in  disguise,  and  we  shall  have  no 
more  trouble." 

"You  see !"  remarked  Cressey  triumphantly  as  Masters  went 
away.  "I  told  you  you'd  arrived." 

"Do  you  count  a  word  of  ordinary  courtesy  as  so  much?" 
inquired  Banneker,  surprised  and  amused. 


244  Success 

"From  Junior?  I  certainly  do.  No  Masters  ever  does  any 
thing  without  having  figured  out  its  exact  meaning  in  advance." 

"And  what  does  this  mean?"  asked  the  other,  still  unim 
pressed. 

"For  one  thing,  that  the  Masters  influence  will  be  back  of  you, 
if  the  police  try  to  put  anything  over.  For  another,  that  you've 
got  the  broadest  door  to  society  open  to  you,  if  Junior  follows  up 
his  hint  about  the  yacht." 

"I  haven't  the  time,"  returned  Banneker  with  honest  indiffer 
ence.  He  sipped  his  coffee  thoughtfully.  "Cressey,"  he  said, 
"if  I  had  a  newspaper  of  my  own  in  New  York,  do  you  know 
what  I'd  do  with  it?" 

"Make  money." 

"I  hope  so.  But  whether  I  did  or  not,  I'd  set  out  to  puncture 
that  bubble  of  the  Masters  power  and  supremacy.  It  isn't  right 
for  any  man  to  have  that  power  just  through  money.  It  isn't 
American." 

"The  old  man  would  smash  your  paper  in  six  months." 

"Maybe.  Maybe  not.  Nobody  has  ever  taken  a  shot  at  him 
yet.  He  may  be  more  vulnerable  than  he  looks.  .  .  .  Speaking  of 
money,  I  suppose  I'd  better  take  that  apartment.  God  knows 
how  I'll  pay  for  it,  especially  if  I  lose  my  job." 

"If  you  lose  your  job  I'll  get  you  a  better  one  on  Wall  Street 
to-morrow." 

"  On  the  strength  of  Poultney  Masters,  Jr.,  shaking  hands  with 
me,  I  suppose." 

"Practically.  It  may  not  get  into  your  newspapers,  but  the 
Street  will  know  all  about  it  to-morrow." 

"It's  a  queer  city.  And  it's  a  queer  way  to  get  on  in  it,  by 
being  quick  on  the  trigger.  Well,  I'm  off  for  the  theater." 

Between  acts,  Banneker,  walking  out  to  get  air,  was  conscious 
of  being  the  object  of  comment  and  demonstration.  He  heard  his 
name  spoken  in  half  whispers ;  saw  nods  and  jerks  of  the  head ; 
was  an  involuntary  eavesdropper  upon  a  heated  discussion; 
"That's  the  man."— "No;  it  ain't.  The  paper  says  he's  a  big 
feller."  -"This  guy  ain't  a  reporter.  Pipe  his  clothes." - 
"Well,  he's  big  if  you  size  him  right.  Look  at  his  shoulders." — 


The  Vision  245 

"I'll  betcha  ten  he  ain't  the  man."  And  an  apologetic  young 
fellow  ran  after  him  to  ask  if  he  was  not,  in  truth,  Mr.  Banneker 
of  The  Ledger.  Being  no  more  than  human,  he  experienced  a 
feeling  of  mild  excitation  over  all  this.  But  no  sooner  had  the 
curtain  risen  on  the  second  act  than  he  quite  forgot  himself  and 
his  notoriety  in  the  fresh  charm  of  the  comedy,  and  the  delicious 
simplicity  of  Betty  Raleigh  as  the  heroine.  That  the  piece  was 
destined  to  success  was  plain,  even  so  early.  As  the  curtain  fell 
again,  and  the  star  appeared,  dragging  after  her  a  long,  gaunt, 
exhausted,  alarmed  man  in  horn-rimmed  spectacles,  who  had 
been  lurking  in  a  corner  suffering  from  incipient  nervous  break 
down  and  illusions  of  catastrophe,  he  being  the  author,  the  body 
of  the  house  rose  and  shouted.  A  hand  fell  on  Banneker's 
shoulder. 

"  Come  behind  at  the  finish  ?  "  said  a  voice. 

Turning,  Banneker  met  the  cynical  and  near-sighted  eyes  of 
Gurney,  The  Ledger's  dramatic  critic,  with  whom  he  had  merely 
a  nodding  acquaintance,  as  Gurney  seldom  visited  the  office 
except  at  off-hours. 

"  Yes ;  I'd  like  to,"  he  answered. 

"Little  Betty  spotted  you  and  has  been  demanding  that  the 
management  bring  you  back  for  inspection." 

"The  play  is  a  big  success,  isn't  it?" 

"I  give  it  a  year's  run,"  returned  the  critic  authoritatively. 
"Laurence  has  written  it  to  fit  Raleigh  like  a  glove.  She's  all  they 
said  of  her  in  London.  And  when  she  left  here  a  year  ago,  she 
was  just  a  fairly  good  ingenue.  However,  she's  got  brains,  which 
is  the  next  best  thing  in  the  theatrical  game  to  marriage  with  the 
manager  —  or  near-marriage." 

Banneker,  considering  Gurney's  crow-footed  and  tired  leer, 
decided  that  he  did  not  like  the  critic  much. 

Back-of -curtain  after  a  successful  opening  provides  a  hectic 
and  scrambled  scene  to  the  unaccustomed  eye.  Hastily  presented 
to  a  few  people,  Banneker  drifted  to  one  side  and,  seating  himself 
on  a  wire  chair,  contentedly  assumed  the  role  of  onlooker.  The 
air  was  full  of  laughter  and  greetings  and  kisses;  light-hearted, 
offhand,  gratulatory  kisses  which  appeared  to  be  the  natural 


246  Success 

currency  of  felicitation.  Betty  Raleigh,  lovely,  flushed,  and 
athrill  with  nervous  exaltation,  flung  him  a  smile  as  she  passed, 
one  hand  hooked  in  the  arm  of  her  leading  man. 

"You're  coming  to  supper  with  us  later,"  she  called. 

"Am  I?"  said  Banneker. 

"Of  course.  I've  got  something  to  ask  you."  She  spoke  as  one 
expectant  of  unquestioning  obedience :  this  was  her  night  of  glory 
and  power. 

Whether  he  had  been  previously  bidden  in  through  Gurney,  or 
whether  this  chance  word  constituted  his  invitation,  he  did  not 
know.  Seeking  enlightenment  upon  the  point,  he  discovered  that 
the  critic  had  disappeared,  to  furnish  his  half-column  for  the 
morning  issue.  La  Tarantina,  hearing  his  inquiry,  gave  him  the 
news  in  her  broken  English.  The  dancer,  lithe,  powerful,  with 
the  hideous  feet  and  knotty  legs  typical  of  her  profession,  turned 
her  somber,  questioning  eyes  on  the  stranger : 

"You  air  Monsieur  Ban-kerr,  who  shoot,  n'est-ce-pas?" 
she  inquired. 

"My  name  is  Banneker,"  he  replied. 

"Weel  you  be  ver'  good  an'  shoot  sahmbody  for  me?" 

"With  pleasure,"  he  said,  laughing;  "if  you'll  plead  for  me 
with  the  jury." 

"Zen  here  he  iss."  She  stretched  a  long  and,  as  it  seemed, 
blatantly  naked  arm  into  a  group  near  by  and  drew  forth  the 
roundish  man  whom  Cressey  had  pointed  out  at  MarrineaPs 
dinner  party.  "He  would  be  unfaithful  to  me,  ziss  one." 

"I?  Never !"  denied  the  accused.  He  set  a  kiss  in  the  hollow 
of  the  dancer's  wrist.  "How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Banneker/'  he  added, 
holding  out  his  hand.  "  My  name  is  Eyre." 

"But  yess!"  cried  the  dancer.  "He  —  what  you  say  it? — he 
r-r-r-rave  over  Miss  R-r-raleigh.  He  make  me  jealous.  He  shall 
be  shoot  at  sunrice  an'  I  weel  console  me  wiz  his  shooter." 

"Charming  programme!"  commented  the  doomed  man.  It 
struck  Banneker  that  he  had  probably  been  drinking  a  good  deal, 
also  that  he  was  a  very  likeable  person,  uideed.  "If  you  don't 
mind  my  asking,  where  the  devil  did  you  learn  to  shoot  like 
that?" 


The  Vision  247 

"Oh,  out  West  where  I  came  from.  I  used  to  practice  on 
the  pine  trees  at  a  little  water-tank  station  called  Manza- 
nita". 

"Manzanita!"  repeated  the  other.  "By  God!"  He  swore 
softly,  and  stared  at  the  other. 

Banneker  was  annoyed.  Evidently  the  gossip  of  which  lo's 
girl  friend  had  hinted  that  other  night  at  Sherry's  had  obtained 
wide  currency.  Before  the  conversation  could  go  any  further, 
even  had  it  been  likely  to  after  that  surprising  check,  one  of  the 
actors  came  over.  He  played  the  part  of  an  ex-cowboy,  who,  in 
the  bar-room  scene,  shot  his  way  out  of  danger  through  a  circle 
of  gang-men,  and  he  was  now  seeking  from  Banneker  ostensibly 
pointers,  actually  praise. 

"Say,  old  man,"  he  began  without  introduction.  "Gimme  a 
tip  or  two.  How  do  you  get  your  hand  over  for  your  gun  with 
out  giving  yourself  away?" 

"  Just  dive  for  it,  as  you  do  in  the  play.  You  do  it  plenty  quick 
enough.  You'd  get  the  drop  on  me  ten  times  out  of  ten,"  re 
turned  Banneker  pleasantly,  leaving  the  gratified  actor  with  the 
conviction  that  he  had  been  talking  with  the  coming  dramatic 
critic  of  the  age. 

For  upwards  of  an  hour  there  was  carnival  on  the  dismantling 
stage,  mingled  with  the  hurried  toil  of  scene-shifters  and  the 
clean-up  gang.  Then  the  impromptu  party  began  to  disperse, 
Eyre  going  away  with  the  dancer,  after  coming  to  bid  Banneker 
good-night,  with  a  look  of  veiled  curiosity  and  interest  which  its 
object  could  not  interpret.  Banneker  was  gathered  into  the 
corps  intime  of  Miss  Raleigh's  supper  party,  including  the  author 
of  the  play,  an  elderly  first-nighter,  two  or  three  dramatic  critics, 
Marrineal,  who  had  drifted  in,  late,  and  half  a  dozen  of  the 
company.  The  men  outnumbered  the  women,  as  is  usual  in  such 
affairs,  and  Banneker  found  himself  seated  between  the  play 
wright  and  a  handsome,  silent  girl  who  played  with  distinction 
the  part  of  an  elderly  woman.  There  was  wine  in  profusion,  but 
he  noticed  that  the  player-folk  drank  sparingly.  Condition,  he 
correctly  surmised,  was  part  of  their  stock  in  trade.  As  it  should 
be  part  of  his  also. 


Success 


Late  in  the  supper's  course,  there  was  a  shifting  of  seats,  and 
he  was  landed  next  to  the  star. 

"I  suppose  you're  bored  stiff  with  talking  about  the  shooting," 
she  said,  at  once. 

"I  am,  rather.  Wouldn't  you  be?" 

"I?  Publicity  is  the  breath  of  life  to  us,"  she  laughed.  "You 
deal  in  it,  so  you  don't  care  for  it." 

"That's  rather  shrewd  in  you.  I'm  not  sure  that  the  logic  is 
sound." 

"Anyway,  I'm  not  going  to  bore  you  with  your  fame.  But  I 
want  you  to  do  something  for  me." 

"It  is  done,"  he  said  solemnly. 

"  How  prettily  you  pay  compliments  !  There  is  to  be  a  police 
investigation,  isn't  there?" 

"Probably." 

"Could  you  get  me  in?" 

"Yes,  indeed!" 

"Then  I  want  to  come  when  you're  on  the  stand." 

"  Great  goodness  !  Why?" 

"Why,  if  you  want  a  reason,"  she  answered  mischievously, 
"say  that  I  want  to  bring  good  luck  to  your  premiere,  as  you 
brought  it  to  mine." 

"I'll  probably  make  a  sorry  showing.  Perhaps  you  would  give 
me  some  training." 

She  answered  in  kind,  and  the  acquaintanceship  was  progress 
ing  most  favorably  when  a  messenger  of  the  theater  manager's 
office  staff  appeared  with  early  editions  of  the  morning  papers. 
Instantly  every  other  interest  was  submerged. 

"Give  me  The  Ledger,"  demanded  Betty.  "I  want  to  see 
what  Gurney  says." 

"Something  pleasant  surely,"  said  Banneker.  "He  told  me 
that  the  play  was  an  assured  success." 

As  she  read,  Betty's  vivacious  face  sparkled.  Presently  her 
expression  changed.  She  uttered  a  little  cry  of  disgust  and  rage. 

"What's  the  matter?"  inquired  the  author. 

"  Gurney  is  up  to  his  smartnesses  again,"  she  replied.  "Listen. 
Isn't  this  enraging!"  She  read: 


The  Vision  249 


As  for  the  play  itself,  it  is  formed,  fashioned,  and  finished  in  the 
cleverest  style  of  tailor-made,  to  Miss  Raleigh's  charming  personality. 
One  must  hail  Mr.  Laurence  as  chief  of  our  sartorial  playwrights.  No 
actress  ever  boasted  a  neater  fit.  Can  you  not  picture  him,  all  nice 
little  enthusiasms  and  dainty  devices,  bustling  about  his  fair  patroness, 
tape  in  hand,  mouth  bristling  with  pins,  smoothing  out  a  wrinkle  here, 
adjusting  a  line  there,  achieving  his  little  chef  d'ceuvre  of  perfect  tailor 
ing?  We  have  had  playwrights  who  were  blacksmiths,  playwrights 
who  were  costumers,  playwrights  who  were  musical-boxes,  playwrights 
who  were,  if  I  may  be  pardoned,  garbage  incinerators.  It  remained, 
for  Mr.  Laurence  to  show  us  what  can  be  done  with  scissors,  needle, 
and  a  nice  taste  in  frills. 

"I  think  it's  mean  and  shameful!"  proclaimed  the  reader  in 
generous  rage. 

"But  he  gives  you  a  splendid  send-off,  Miss  Raleigh,"  said  her 
leading  man,  who,  reading  over  her  shoulder,  had  discovered  that 
he,  too,  was  handsomely  treated. 

"I  don't  care  if  he  does ! "  cried  Betty.  " He's  a  pig ! " 

Her  manager,  possessed  of  a  second  copy  of  The  Ledger,  now 
made  a  weighty  contribution  to  the  discussion.  "Just  the  same, 
this'll  help  sell  out  the  house.  It's  full  of  stuff  we  can  lift  to 
paper  the  town  with." 

He  indicated  several  lines  heartily  praising  Miss  Raleigh  and 
the  cast,  and  one  which,  wrenched  from  its  satirical  context,  was 
made  to  give  an  equally  favorable  opinion  of  the  play.  Some 
thing  of  Banneker's  astonishment  at  this  cavalier  procedure 
must  have  been  reflected  in  his  face,  for  Marrineal,  opposite, 
turned  to  him  with  a  look  of  amusement. 

"What's  your  view  of  that,  Mr.  Banneker?" 

"Mine?"  said  Banneker  promptly.  "I  think  it's  crooked 
What's  yours?" 

"Still  quick  on  the  trigger,"  murmured  the  other,  but  did  not 
answer  the  return  query. 

Replies  in  profusion  came  from  the  rest,  however.  "It  isn't 
any  crookeder  than  the  review."  —  "D'you  call  that  fair  criti 
cism!" — "Gurney!  He  hasn't  an  honest  hair  in  his  head."— 
"Every  other  critic  is  strong  for  it;  this  is  the  only  knock."— 
"What  did  Laurence  ever  do  to  Gurney?" 


250  Success 

Out  of  the  welter  of  angry  voices  came  Betty  Raleigh's  clear 
speech,  addressed  to  Banneker. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Banneker;  I'd  forgotten  that  The  Ledger  is 
your  paper." 

"Oh,  The  Ledger  ain't  any  worse  than  the  rest  of  'em,  take  it 
day  in  and  day  out,"  the  manager  remarked,  busily  penciling 
apposite  texts  for  advertising,  on  the  margin  of  Gurney's  critique. 

"It  isn't  fair,"  continued  the  star.  "A  man  spends  a  year 
working  over  a  play  —  it  was  more  than  a  year  on  this,  wasn't 
it,  Denny?"  she  broke  off  to  ask  the  author. 

Laurence  nodded.  He  looked  tired  and  a  little  bored,  Banne 
ker  thought. 

"And  a  critic  has  a  happy  thought  and  five  minutes  to  think 
it  over,  and  writes  something  mean  and  cruel  and  facetious,  and 
perhaps  undoes  a  whole  year's  work.  Is  that  right  ?  " 

"They  ought  to  bar  him  from  the  theater,"  declared  one  of  the 
women  in  the  cast. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  inquired  Marrineal,  still 
addressing  Banneker. 

Banneker  laughed.  "Admit  only  those  who  wear  the  bright 
and  burnished  badge  of  the  Booster,"  he  said.  "Is  that  the 
idea?" 

"Nobody  objects  to  honest  criticism,"  began  Betty  Raleigh 
heatedly,  and  was  interrupted  by  a  mild  but  sardonic  "  Hear ! 
Hear ! "  from  one  of  the  magazine  reviewers. 

"Honest  players  don't  object  to  honest  criticism,  then,"  she 
amended.  "It's  the  unfairness  that  hurts." 

"All  of  which  appears  to  be  based  on  the  assumption  that  it 
is  impossible  for  Mr.  Gurney  honestly  to  have  disliked  Mr. 
Laurence's  play,"  pointed  out  Banneker.  "Now,  delightful  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  I  can  conceive  that  to  other  minds  — " 

"Of  course  he  could  honestly  dislike  it,"  put  in  the  play 
wright  hastily.  "  It  isn't  that." 

"It's  the  mean,  slurring  way  he  treated  it,"  said  the  star 
"Mr.  Banneker,  just  what  did  he  say  to  you  about  it?" 

Swiftly  there  leapt  to  his  recollection  the  critic's  words,  at  the 
close  of  the  second  act.  "It's  a  relief  to  listen  for  once  to  n 


The  Vision  251 

comedy  that  is  sincere  and  direct."  .  .  .  Then  why,  why  —  "He 
said  that  you  were  all  that  the  play  required  and  the  play  was  all 
that  you  required,"  he  answered,  which  was  also  true,  but  an 
other  part  of  the  truth.  He  was  not  minded  to  betray  his  associate. 

"He's  rotten,"  murmured  the  manager,  now  busy  on  the 
margin  of  another  paper.  "But  I  dunno  as  he's  any  rottener 
than  the  rest." 

"On  behalf  of  the  profession  of  journalism,  we  thank  you, 
Bezdek,"  said  one  of  the  critics. 

"Don't  mind  old  Bez,"  put  in  the  elderly  first-nighter.  "He 
always  says  what  he  thinks  he  means,  but  he  usually  doesn't 
mean  it." 

"That  is  perhaps  just  as  well,"  said  Banneker  quite  quietly, 
"if  he  means  that  The  Ledger  is  not  straight." 

"I  didn't  say  The  Ledger.  I  said  Gurney.  He's  crooked  as  a 
corkscrew's  hole." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  protest  and  apprehension,  for  this  was 
going  rather  too  far,  which  Banneker's  voice  stilled.  "Just  a 
minute.  By  that  you  mean  that  he  takes  bribes?" 

"Naw!"  snorted  Bezdek. 

"That  he's  influenced  by  favoritism,  then?" 

"I  didn't  say  so,  did  I?" 

"  You've  said  either  too  little  or  too  much." 

"  I  can  clear  this  up,  I  think,"  proffered  the  elderly  first-nighter, 
in  his  courteous  voice.  "Mr.  Gurney  is  perhaps  more  the  writer 
than  the  critic.  He  is  carried  away  by  the  felicitous  phrase." 

"He'd  rather  be  funny  than  fair,"  said  Miss  Raleigh  bluntly. 

"The  curse  of  dramatic  criticism,"  murmured  a  magazine 
representative. 

"Rotten,"  said  Bezdek  doggedly.  "Crooked.  Tryin'  to  be 
funny  at  other  folks'  expense,  /'ll  give  his  tail  a  twist!"  By 
which  he  meant  Mr.  Gurney's  printed  words. 

"Apropos  of  the  high  cult  of  honesty,"  remarked  Banneker. 

"The  curse  of  all  journalism,"  put  in  Laurence.  "The  temp 
tation  to  be  effective  at  the  expense  of  honesty." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  inquired  the  cheerful 
Marrineal,  still  directing  his  query  to  Banneker. 


252  Success 

"  I  think  it's  rather  a  large  order.  Why  do  you  keep  asking  my 
opinion?" 

"Because  I  suspect  that  you  still  bring  a  fresh  mind  to  bear  on 
these  matters." 

Banneker  rose,  and  bade  Betty  Raleigh  good-night.  She 
retained  his  hand  in  hers,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  glint  of 
anxiety  in  her  weary,  childlike  eyes.  "Don't  mind  what  we've 
said,"  she  appealed  to  him.  "We're  all  a  little  above  ourselves. 
It's  always  so  after  an  opening." 

"I  don't  mind  at  all,"  he  returned  gravely :  "unless  it's  true.'* 

"Ah,  it's  true  right  enough,"  she  answered  dispiritedly, 
"Don't  forget  about  the  investigation.  And  don't  let  them  dare 
to  put  you  on  on  a  matinee  day." 

Betty  Raleigh  was  a  conspicuous  figure,  at  not  one  but  half  a 
dozen  sessions  of  the  investigation,  which  wound  through  an 
accelerating  and  sensational  course,  with  Banneker  as  the  chief 
figure.  He  was  an  extraordinary  witness,  ready,  self-possessed, 
good-humored  under  the  heckling  of  the  politician  lawyer  who 
had  claimed  and  received  the  right  to  appear,  on  the  ground  that 
his  police  clients  might  be  summoned  later  on  a  criminal  charge. 

Before  the  proceedings  were  over,  a  complete  overturn  in  the 
city  government  was  foreshadowed,  and  it  became  evident  that 
Judge  Enderby  might  either  head  the  movement  as  its  candidate, 
or  control  it  as  its  leader.  Nobody,  however,  knew  what  he 
wished  or  intended  politically.  Every  now  and  again  in  the  prog 
ress  of  the  hearings,  Banneker  would  surprise  on  the  lawyer's  face 
an  expression  which  sent  his  memory  questing  fruitlessly  for  deter 
mination  of  that  elusive  likeness,  flickering  dimly  in  the  past. 

Banneker's  own  role  in  the  investigation  kept  him  in  the  head 
lines;  at  times  put  him  on  the  front  page.  Even  The  Ledger 
could  only  minimize,  not  suppress,  his  dominating  and  pictur 
esque  part. 

But  there  was  another  and  less  pleasant  sequel  to  the  shooting, 
in  its  effect  upon  the  office  status.  Though  he  was  a  "space 
man"  now,  dependent  for  his  earnings  upon  the  number  ot 
columns  weekly  which  he  had  in  the  paper,  and  ostensibly 
equipped  to  handle  matter  of  importance,  a  long  succession  of  the 


The  Vision  253 

pettiest  kind  of  assignments  was  doled  out  to  him  by  the  city 
desk :  obituary  notices  of  insignificant  people,  small  police  items, 
tipsters'  yarns,  routine  jobs  such  as  ship  news,  police  headquar 
ters  substitution,  even  the  minor  courts  usually  relegated  to  the 
fifteen  or  twenty-dollar-a-week  men.  Or,  worst  and  most  grind 
ing  ordeal  of  a  reporter's  life,  he  was  kept  idle  at  his  desk,  like  a 
misbehaving  boy  after  school,  when  all  the  other  men  had  been 
sent  out.  One  week  his  total  space  came  to  but  twenty-eight 
dollars  odd.  What  this  meant  was  plain  enough;  he  was  being 
disciplined  for  his  part  in  the  investigation. 

Out  of  the  open  West  which,  under  the  rigor  of  the  game,  keeps 
its  temper  and  its  poise,  Banneker  had  brought  the  knack  of 
setting  his  teeth  and  smiling  so  serenely  that  one  never  even 
perceived  the  teeth  to  be  set  behind  the  smile.  This  ability  stood 
him  in  good  stead  now.  In  his  time  of  enforced  leisure  he  be 
thought  himself  of  the  sketches  which  Miss  Westlake  had  typed. 
With  his  just  and  keen  perception,  he  judged  them  not  to  be 
magazine  matter.  But  they  might  do  as  "  Sunday  stuff."  He 
turned  in  half  a  dozen  of  them  to  Mr.  Romans.  When  next  he 
saw  them  they  were  lying,  in  uncorrected  proof,  on  the  manag 
ing  editor's  desk  while  Mr.  Gordon  gently  rapped  his  knuckles 
over  them. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  idea  for  these,  Mr.  Banneker?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  know.    It  came  to  me." 

"Would  you  care  to  sign  them?" 

"Sign  them?"  repeated  the  reporter  in  surprise,  for  this  was 
a  distinction  afforded  to  only  a  choice  few  on  the  conservative 
Ledger. 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  run  them  on  the  editorial  page.  Do  us 
some  more  and  keep  them  within  the  three-quarters.  What's 
your  full  name?" 

"I'd  like  to  sign  them  'Eban,'  answered  the  other,  after  some 
thought.  "And  thank  you." 

Assignments  or  no  assignments,  thereafter  Banneker  was  able 
to  fill  his  idle  time.  Made  adventurous  by  the  success  of  the 
"Vagrancies,"  he  next  tried  his  hand  at  editorials  on  light  or 


254  Success 

picturesque  topics,  and  with  satisfying  though  not  equal  results, 
for  here  he  occasionally  stumbled  upon  the  hard-rooted  preju 
dices  of  the  Inside  Office,  and  beheld  his  efforts  vanish  into  the 
irreclaimable  limbo  of  the  scrap-basket.  Nevertheless,  at  ten 
Hollars  per  column  for  this  kind  of  writing,  he  continued  to  make 
a  decent  space  bill,  and  clear  himself  of  the  doldrums  where  the 
waning  of  the  city  desk's  favor  had  left  him.  All  that  he  could 
now  make  he  needed,  for  his  change  of  domicile  had  brought 
about  a  corresponding  change  of  habit  and  expenditure  into 
which  he  slipped  imperceptibly.  To  live  on  fifteen  dollars  a 
week,  plus  his  own  small  income,  which  all  went  for  "extras," 
had  been  simple,  at  Mrs.  Brashear's.  To  live  on  fifty  at  the 
Regalton  was  much  more  of  a  problem.  Banneker  discovered 
that  he  was  a  natural  spender.  The  discovery  caused  him  neither 
displeasure  nor  uneasiness.  He  confidently  purposed  to  have 
money  to  spend ;  plenty  of  it,  as  a  mere,  necessary  concomitant 
to  other  things  that  he  was  after.  Good  reporters  on  space,  work 
ing  moderately,  made  from  sixty  to  seventy-five  dollars  a  week. 
Banneker  set  himself  a  mark  of  a  hundred  dollars.  He  intended 
to  work  very  hard ...  if  Mr.  Greenough  would  give  him  a  chance. 

Mr.  Greenough's  distribution  of  the  day's  news  continued  to 
be  distinctly  unfavorable  to  the  new  space-man.  The  better  men 
on  the  staff  began  to  comment  on  the  city  desk's  discrimination. 
Banneker  had,  for  a  time,  shone  in  heroic  light :  his  feat  had  been 
honorable,  not  only  to  The  Ledger  office,  but  to  the  entire  craft 
of  reporting.  In  the  investigation  he  had  borne  himself  with 
unexceptionable  modesty  and  equanimity.  That  he  should  be 
"picked  on"  offended  that  generous  esprit  de  corps  which  was 
natural  to  the  office.  Tommy  Burt  was  all  for  referring  the 
matter  to  Mr.  Gordon. 

"You  mind  your  own  business,  Tommy,"  said  Banneker 
placidly.  "Our  friend  the  Joss  will  stick  his  foot  into  a  gopher 
hole  yet." 

The  assignment  that  afforded  Banneker  his  chance  was  of  the 
most  unpromising.  An  old  builder,  something  of  a  local  character 
over  in  the  Corlears  Hook  vicinity,  had  died.  The  Ledger,  Mr. 
Greenough  informed  Banneker,  in  his  dry,  polite  manner,  wanted 


The  Vision  255 

"a  sufficient  obit"  of  the  deceased.  Banneker  went  to  the  queer, 
decrepit  frame  cottage  at  the  address  given,  and  there  found  a 
group  of  old  Sam  Corpenshire's  congeners,  in  solemn  conclave 
over  the  dead.  They  welcomed  the  reporter,  and  gave  him  a 
ceremonial  drink  of  whiskey,  highly  superior  whiskey.  They 
were  glad  that  he  had  come  to  write  of  their  dead  friend.  If  ever 
a  man  deserved  a  good  write-up,  it  was  Sam  Corpenshire.  From 
one  mouth  to  another  they  passed  the  word  of  his  shrewd  deal 
ings,  of  his  good-will  to  his  neighbors,  of  his  ripe  judgment,  of  his 
friendliness  to  all  sound  things  and  sound  men,  of  his  shy,  sly 
charities,  of  the  thwarted  romance,  which,  many  years  before, 
had  left  him  lonely  but  unembittered  •  and  out  of  it  Banneker, 
with  pen  too  slow  for  his  eager  will,  wove  not  a  two-stick  obit, 
but  a  rounded  column  shot  through  with  lights  that  played  upon 
the  little  group  of  characters,  the  living  around  the  dead,  like 
sunshine  upon  an  ancient  garden. 

Even  Mr.  Greenough  congratulated  Banneker,  the  next  morn 
ing.  In  the  afternoon  mail  came  a  note  from  Mr.  Gaines  of 
The  New  Era  monthly.  That  perspicuous  editor  had  instantly 
identified  the  style  of  the  article  with  that  of  the  "Eban"  series, 
part  of  which  he  had  read  in  typograph.  He  wrote  briefly  but 
warmly  of  the  work :  and  would  the  writer  not  call  and  see  him 
soon? 

Perhaps  the  reporter  might  have  accepted  the  significant  in 
vitation  promptly,  as  he  at  first  intended.  But  on  the  following 
morning  he  found  in  his  box  an  envelope  under  French  stamp, 
inscribed  with  writing  which,  though  he  had  seen  but  two  speci 
mens  of  it,  drove  everything  else  out  of  his  tumultuous  thoughts. 
He  took  it,  not  to  his  desk,  but  to  a  side  room  of  the  art  depart 
ment,  unoccupied  at  that  hour,  and  opened  it  with  chilled  and 
fumbling  hands. 

Within  was  a  newspaper  clipping,  from  a  Paris  edition  of  an 
American  daily.  It  gave  a  brief  outline  of  the  battle  on  the  pier. 
In  pencil  on  the  margin  were  these  words : 

Do  you  remember  practicing,  that  day,  among 
the  pines?    I'm  so  proud! 

lo. 


256  Success 

He  read  it  again.  The  last  sentence  affected  him  with  a  sensa 
tion  of  dizziness.  Proud !  Of  his  deed !  It  gave  him  the  feeling 
that  she  had  reclaimed,  reappropriated  him.  No !  That  she  had 
never  for  a  moment  released  him.  In  a  great  surge,  sweeping 
through  his  veins,  he  felt  the  pressure  of  her  breast  against  his, 
the  strong  enfoldment  of  her  arms,  her  breath  upon  his  lips.  He 
tore  envelope  and  clipping  into  fragments. 

By  one  of  those  strange  associations  of  linked  memory,  such 
as  "clangs  and  flashes  for  a  drowning  man,"  he  sharply  recalled 
where  he  had  seen  Willis  Enderby  before.  His  was  the  face  in  the 
photograph  to  which  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  had  turned  when 
death  stretched  out  a  hand  toward  her. 


CHAPTER  X 

WHILE  the  police  inquiry  was  afoot,  Banneker  was,  perforce, 
often  late  in  reporting  for  duty,  the  regular  hour  being  twelve- 
thirty.  Thus  the  idleness  which  the  city  desk  had  imposed  upon 
him  was,  in  a  measure,  justified.  On  a  Thursday,  when  he  had 
been  held  in  conference  with  Judge  Enderby,  he  did  not  reach 
The  Ledger  office  until  after  two.  Mr.  Greenough  was  still  out 
for  luncheon.  No  sooner  had  Banneker  entered  the  swinging 
gate  than  Mallory  called  to  him.  On  the  assistant  city  editor's 
face  was  a  peculiar  expression,  half  humorous,  half  dubious, 
as  he  said : 

"Mr.  Greenough  has  left  an  assignment  for  you." 

"All  right,"  said  Banneker,  stretching  out  his  hand  for  the 
clipping  or  slip.  None  was  forthcoming. 

"It's  a  tip,"  explained  Mallory.  "It's  from  a  pretty  convinc 
ing  source.  The  gist  of  it  is  that  the  Delavan  Eyres  have  sepa 
rated  and  a  divorce  is  impending.  You  know,  of  course,  who  tht, 
Eyres  are." 

"I've  met  Eyre." 

"That  so?  Ever  met  his  wife?" 

"No,"  replied  Banneker,  in  good  faith. 

"No;  you  wouldn't  have,  probably.  They  travel  different 
paths.  Besides,  she's  been  practically  living  abroad.  She's  a 
stunner.  It's  big  society  stuff,  of  course.  The  best  chance  of 
landing  the  story  is  from  Archie  Densmore,  her  half-brother. 
The  international  polo-player,  you  know.  You'll  find  him  at 
The  Retreat,  down  on  the  Jersey  coast." 

The  Retreat  Banneker  had  heard  of  as  being  a  bachelor  coun 
try  club  whose  distinguishing  marks  were  a  rather  Spartan  ath 
leticism,  and  a  more  stiffly  hedged  exclusiveness  than  any  other 
social  institution  known  to  the  elite  of  New  York  and  Phila 
delphia,  between  which  it  stood  midway. 

"Then  I'm  to  go  and  ask  him,"  said  Banneker  slowly, 
"  whether  his  sister  is  suing  for  divorce  ?  " 


258  Success 

"  Yes,"  confirmed  Mallory,  a  trifle  nervously.  "  Find  out  who's 
to  be  named,  of  course.  I  suppose  it's  that  new  dancer,  though 
there  have  been  others.  And  there  was  a  quaint  story  about 
some  previous  attachment  of  Mrs.  Eyre's :  that  might  have  some 
bearing." 

"I'm  to  ask  her  brother  about  that,  too?" 

"We  want  the  story,"  answered  Mallory,  almost  petulantly. 

On  the  trip  down  into  Jersey  the  reporter  had  plenty  of  time 
to  consider  his  unsavory  task.  Some  one  had  to  do  this  kind  of 
thing,  so  long  as  the  public  snooped  and  peeped  and  eaves 
dropped  through  the  keyhole  of  print  at  the  pageant  of  the 
socially  great:  this  he  appreciated  and  accepted.  But  he  felt 
that  it  ought  to  be  some  one  other  than  himself  —  and,  at  the 
same  time,  was  sufficiently  just,  to  smile  at  himself  for  his  illogi 
cal  attitude. 

A  surprisingly  good  auto  was  found  in  the  town  of  his  destina 
tion,  to  speed  him  to  the  stone  gateway  of  The  Retreat.  The 
guardian,  always  on  duty  there,  passed  him  with  a  civil  word, 
and  a  sober-liveried  flunkey  at  the  clubhouse  door,  after  a  swift, 
unobtrusive  consideration  of  his  clothes  and  bearing,  took  him 
readily  for  granted,  and  said  that  Mr.  Densmore  would  be  just 
about  going  on  the  polo  field  for  practice.  Did  the  gentleman 
know  his  way  to  the  field?  Seeing  the  flag  on  the  stable,  Banne- 
ker  nodded,  and  walked  over.  A  groom  pointed  out  a  spare, 
powerful  looking  young  man  with  a  pink  face,  startlingly  defined 
by  a  straight  black  mustache  and  straighter  black  eyebrows, 
mounting  a  light-built  roan,  a  few  rods  away.  Banneker  accosted 
him. 

"Yes,  my  name  is  Densmore,"  he  answered  the  visitor's  accost. 

"I'm  a  reporter  from  The  Ledger,"  explained  Banneker. 

"A  reporter?"  Mr.  Densmore  frowned.  "Reporters  aren't 
allowed  here,  except  on  match  days.  How  did  you  get  in  ?  " 

"Nobody  stooped  me,"  answered  the  visitor  in  an  expression 
less  tone. 

"It  doesn't. matter,"  said  the  other,  "since  you're  here.  What 
is  it;  the  international  challenge?" 

"  A  rumor  has  come  to  us  —  There's  a  tip  come  in  at  the 


The  Vision  259 

office  —  We  understood  that  there  is  — "  Banneker  pulled  him 
self  together  and  put  the  direct  question.  "  Is  Mrs.  Delavan  Eyre 
bringing  a  divorce  suit  against  her  husband?" 

For  a  time  there  was  a  measured  silence.  Mr.  Densmore's 
heavy  brows  seemed  to  jut  outward  and  downward  toward  the 
questioner. 

"You  came  out  here  from  New  York  to  ask  me  that?"  he  said 
presently. 

"Yes." 

"Any thing  else?" 

"Yes.  Who  is  named  as  co-respondent?  And  will  there  be  a 
defense,  or  a  counter-suit  ?  " 

"A  counter-suit,"  repeated  the  man  in  the  saddle  quietly. 
"  I  wonder  if  you  realize  what  you're  asking  ?  " 

"I'm  trying  to  get  the  news,"  said  Banneker  doggedly  striving 
to  hold  to  an  ideal  which  momentarily  grew  more  sordid  and 
tawdry. 

"And  I  wonder  if  you  realize  how  you  ought  to  be  answered." 

Yes;  Banneker  realized,  with  a  sick  realization.  But  he  was 
not  going  to  admit  it.  He  kept  silence. 

"If  this  polo  mallet  were  a  whip,  now,"  observed  Mr.  Dens- 
more  meditatively.  "A  dog- whip,  for  preference." 

Under  the  shameful  threat  Banneker's  eyes  lightened.  Here 
at  least  was  something  he  could  face  like  a  man.  His  undermin 
ing  nausea  mitigated. 

"What  then?"  he  inquired  in  tones  as  level  as  those  of  his 
opponent. 

"Why,  then  I'd  put  a  mark  on  you.  A  reporter's  mark." 

"I  think  not." 

"  Oh ;  you  think  not  ?  "  The  horseman  studied  him  negligently. 
Trained  to  the  fineness  of  steel  in  the  school  of  gymnasium,  field, 
and  tennis  court,  he  failed  to  recognize  in  the  man  before  him  a 
type  as  formidable,  in  its  rugged  power,  as  his  own.  "Or  per 
haps  I'd  have  the  grooms  do  it  for  me,  before  they  threw  you 
over  the  fence." 

"It  would  be  safer,"  allowed  the  other,  with  a  smile  that  sur 
prised  the  athlete. 


260  Success 

"Safer?"  he  repeated.  "I  wasn't  thinking  of  safety." 

"Think  of  it,"  advised  the  visitor ;  "for  if  you  set  your  grooms 
on  me,  they  could  perhaps  throw  me  out.  But  as  sure  as  they 
did  I'd  kill  you  the  next  time  we  met." 

Densmore  smiled.  "You!"  he  said  contemptuously.  "Kill, 
eh  ?  Did  you  ever  kill  any  one  ?  "_, 

"Yes." 

Under  their  jet  brows  Densmore's  eyes  took  on  a  peculiar 
look  of  intensity.  "A  Ledger  reporter,"  he  murmured.  "See 
here !  Is  your  name  Banneker,  by  any  chance  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"You're  the  man  who  cleared  out  the  wharf -gang 

"Yes." 

Densmore  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  a  cult  to  which 
courage  is  the  basic,  inclusive  virtue  for  mankind,  as  chastity  is 
for  womankind.  To  his  inground  prejudice  a  man  who  was  simply 
and  unaffectedly  brave  must  by  that  very  fact  be  fine  and  ad 
mirable.  And  this  man  had  not  only  shown  an  iron  nerve,  but 
afterward,  in  the  investigation,  which  Densmore  had  followed, 
he  had  borne  himself  with  the  modesty,  discretion,  and  good 
taste  of  the  instinctive  gentleman.  The  poloist  was  almost 
pathetically  at  a  loss.  When  he  spoke  again  his  whole  tone  and 
manner  had  undergone  a  vital  transformation. 

"But,  good  God !"  he  cried  in  real  distress  and  bewilderment, 
"a  fellow  who  could  do  what  you  did,  stand  up  to  those  gun-men 
in  the  dark  and  alone,  to  be  garbaging  around  asking  rotten, 
prying  questions  about  a  man's  sister !  No !  I  don't  get  it." 

Banneker  felt  the  blood  run  up  into  his  face,  under  the  sting 
of  the  other's  puzzled  protest,  as  it  would  never  have  done  under 
open  contempt  or  threat.  A  miserable,  dull  hopelessness  pos 
sessed  him.  "It's  part  of  the  business,"  he  muttered. 

"Then  it's  a  rotten  business,"  retorted  the  horseman.  "Do 
you  have  to  do  this?" 

"Somebody  has  to  get  the  news." 

"News!  Scavenger's  filth.  See  here,  Banneker,  I'm  sorry  I 
roughed  you  about  the  whip.  But,  to  ask  a  man  questions  about 
the  women  of  his  own  family  —  No :  I'm  damned  if  I  get  it."  He 


The  Vision  261 


lost  himself  in  thought,  and  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  as  much 
to  himself  as  to  the  man  on  the  ground.  "  Suppose  I  did  make 
a  frank  statement:  you  can  never  trust  the  papers  to  get  it 
straight,  even  if  they  mean  to,  which  is  doubtful.  And  there's 
lo's  name  smeared  all  over  —  Hel-lo  !  What's  the  matter,  now  ?  " 
For  his  horse  had  shied  away  from  an  involuntary  jerk  of  Ban- 
neker's  muscles,  responsive  to  electrified  nerves,  so  sharply  as  to 
disturb  the  rider's  balance. 

"What  name  did  you  say  ?  "  muttered  Banneker,  involuntarily. 

"lo.  My  foster-sister's  nickname.  Irene  Welland,  she  was. 
You're  a  queer  sort  of  society  reporter  if  you  don't  know  that." 

"I'm  not  a  society  reporter." 

"But  you  know  Mrs.  Eyre?" 

"Yes;  in  a  way,"  returned  Banneker,  gaining  command  of 
himself.  "Officially,  you  might  say.  She  was  in  a  railroad  wreck 
that  I  stage-managed  out  West.  I  was  the  local  agent." 

"Then  I've  heard  about  you,"  replied  Densmore  with  interest, 
though  he  had  heard  only  what  little  lo  had  deemed  it  advisable 
that  he  should  know.  "You  helped  my  sister  when  she  was  hurt. 
We  owe  you  something  for  that." 

"Official  duty." 

"That's  all  right.  But  it  was  more  than  that.  I  recall  your 
name  now."  Densmore's  bearing  had  become  that  of  a  man  to 
his  equal.  "I'll  tell  you ;  let's  go  up  to  the  clubhouse  and  have  a 
drink,  shan't  we?  D'  you  mind  just  waiting  here  while  I  give  this 
nag  a  little  run  to  supple  him  up?" 

He  was  off,  leaving  Banneker  with  brain  awhirl.  To  steady 
himself  against  this  sudden  flood  of  memory  and  circumstance, 
Banneker  strove  to  focus  his  attention  upon  the  technique  of  the 
horse  and  his  rider.  When  they  returned  he  said  at  once : 

"Are  you  going  to  play  that  pony?" 

The  horseman  looked  mildly  surprised.  "After  he's  learned  a 
bit  more.  Shapes  up  well,  don't  you  think?" 

"Speed  him  up  to  me  and  give  him  a  sharp  twist  to  the  right, 
will  you?" 

Accepting  the  suggestion  without  comment,  Densmore  can 
tered  away  and  brought  the  roan  down  at  speed  To  the  rider, 


262  Success 

his  mount  seemed  to  make  the  sudden  turn  perfectly.  But 
Banneker  stepped  out  and  examined  the  off  forefoot  with  a 
dubious  face. 

"Breaks  a  little  there,"  he  stated  seriously. 

The  horseman  tried  the  turn  again,  throwing  his  weight  over. 
This  time  he  did  feel  a  slightly  perceptible  "give."  "  What's  the 
remedy?"  he  asked. 

"Build  up  the  outer  flange  of  the  shoe.  That  may  do  it.  But 
I  shouldn't  trust  him  without  a  thorough  test.  A  good  pony '11 
always  overplay  his  safety  a  little  in  a  close  match." 

The  implication  of  this  expert  view  aroused  Densmore's  curi 
osity.  "You've  played,"  he  said. 

"No :  I've  never  played.  I've  knocked  the  ball  about  a  little." 

"Where?" 

"Out  in  Santa  Barbara.  With  the  stable-boys." 

So  simply  was  it  said  that  Densmore  returned,  quite  as  simply : 
"Were  you  a  stable-boy?" 

"No  such  luck,  then.  Just  a  kid,  out  of  a  job." 

Densmore  dismounted,  handed  reins  and  mallet  to  the  visitor 
and  said,  "Try  a  shot  or  two." 

Slipping  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  Banneker  mounted  and  urged 
the  pony  after  the  ball  which  the  other  sent  spinning  out  across 
the  field.  He  made  a  fairly  creditable  cut  away  to  the  left,  follow 
ing  down  and  playing  back  moderately.  While  his  mallet  work 
was,  naturally,  uncertain,  he  played  with  a  full,  easy  swing  and 
in  good  form.  But  it  was  his  horsemanship  which  specially  com 
mended  itself  to  the  critical  eye  of  the  connoisseur. 

"Ridden  range,  haven't  you?"  inquired  the  poloist  when  the 
other  came  in. 

"Quite  a  bit  of  it,  in  my  time." 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Densmore,  employing  his  favorite 
formula.  "There'll  be  practice  later.  It's  an  off  day  and  we 
probably  won't  have  two  full  teams.  Let  me  rig  you  out,  and 
you  try  it." 

Banneker  shook  his  head.  "I'm  here  on  business.  I'm  a  re 
porter  with  a  story  to  get." 

"All  right ;  it's  up  to  a  reporter  to  stick  until  he  gets  his  news," 


The  Vision  263 

agreed  the  other.  "  You  dismiss  your  taxi,  and  stay  out  here  and 
dine,  and  I'll  run  you  back  to  town  myself.  And  at  nine  o'clock 
I'll  answer  your  question  and  answer  it  straight." 

Banneker,  gazing  longingly  at  the  bright  turf  of  the  field, 
accepted. 

Polo  is  to  The  Retreat  what  golf  is  to  the  average  country  club. 
The  news  that  Archie  Densmore  had  a  new  player  down  for  a 
try-out  brought  to  the  side-lines  a  number  of  the  old-time  fol 
lowers  of  the  game,  including  Poultney  Masters,  the  autocrat  of 
Wall  Street  and  even  more  of  The  Retreat,  whose  stables  he,  in 
large  measure,  supported.  In  the  third  period,  the  stranger  went 
in  at  Number  Three  on  the  pink  team.  He  played  rather  poorly, 
but  there  was  that  in  his  style  which  encouraged  the  enthusiasts. 

"He's  material,"  grunted  old  Masters,  blinking  his  pendulous 
eyelids,  as  Banneker,  accepting  the  challenge  of  Jim  Maitland, 
captain  of  the  opposing  team  and  roughest  of  players,  for  a  ride- 
ofT,  carried  his  own  horse  through  by  sheer  adroitness  and 
daring,  and  left  the  other  rolling  on  the  turf.  "Anybody  know 
who  he  is?" 

"Heard  Archie  call  him  Banker,  I  think,"  answered  one  of  the 
great  man's  hangers-on. 

Later,  Banneker  having  changed,  sat  in  an  angled  window  of 
the  clubhouse,  waiting  for  his  host,  who  had  returned  from  the 
stables.  A  group  of  members  entering  the  room,  and  concealed 
from  him  by  an  L,  approached  the  fireplace  talking  briskly. 

"Dick  says  the  feller's  a  reporter,"  declared  one  of  them, 
a  middle-aged  man  named  Kirke.  "Says  he  saw  him  tryin'  to 
interview  somebody  on  the  Street,  one  day." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  it,"  announced  an  elderly  member. 
"This  chap  of  Densmore's  looks  like  a  gentleman  and  dresses  like 
one.  I  don't  believe  he's  a  reporter.  And  he  rides  like  a  devil." 

"/  say  there's  ridin'  and  ridin',"  proclaimed  Kirke.  "Some 
fellers  ride  like  jockeys;  some  fellers  ride  like  cowboys;  some 
fellers  ride  like  gentlemen.  I  say  this  reporter  feller  don't  ride 
like  a  gentleman." 

"Oh,  slush  ! "  said  another  discourteously.  "  What  is  riding  like 
a  gentleman?" 


264  Success 

Kirke  reverted  to  the  set  argument  of  his  type.  "I'll  betcha 
a  hundred  he  don't ! " 

" Who's  to  settle  such  a  bet?" 

"  Leave  it  to  Maitland,"  said  somebody. 

"I'll  leave  it  to  Archie  Densmore  if  you  like/'  offered  the 
bettor  belligerently. 

"Leave  it  to  Mr.  Masters,"  suggested  Kirke. 

"  Why  not  leave  it  to  the  horse  ?  " 

The  suggestion,  coming  in  a  level  and  unconcerned  tone  from 
the  depths  of  the  chair  in  which  Banneker  was  seated,  produced 
an  electrical  effect.  Banneker  spoke  only  because  the  elderly 
member  had  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  he  saw  that  he  must 
be  discovered  in  another  moment.  Out  of  the  astonished  silence 
came  the  elderly  member's  voice,  gentle  and  firm. 

"Are  you  the  visitor  we  have  been  so  frankly  discussing?" 

"I  assume  so." 

"Isn't  it  rather  unfortunate  that  you  did  not  make  your 
presence  known  sooner?" 

"I  hoped  that  I  might  have  a  chance  to  slip  out  unseen  and 
save  you  embarrassment." 

The  other  came  forward  at  once  with  hand  outstretched.  "  My 
name  is  Forster,"  he  said.  "You're  Mr.  Banker,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Banneker,  shaking  hands.  For  various  reasons  it 
did  not  seem  worth  while  to  correct  the  slight  error. 

"Look  out !  Here's  the  old  man,"  said  some  one. 

Poultney  Masters  plodded  in,  his  broad  paunch  shaking  with 
chuckles.  "'Leave  it  to  the  horse,'"  he  mumbled  apprecia 
tively.  "'Leave  it  to  the  horse.'  It's  good.  It's  damned  good. 
The  right  answer.  Who  but  the  horse  should  know  whether  a 
man  rides  like  a  gentleman!  Where's  young  Banneker?" 

Forster  introduced  the  two.  "You've  got  the  makings  of  a  polo- 
man  in  you,"  decreed  the  great  man.  "  Where  are  you  playing  ?  " 

"  I've  never  really  played.  Just  practiced." 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  with  us.  Where's  Densmore?  We'll 
put  you  up  and  have  you  in  by  the  next  meeting." 

"A  reporter  in  The  Retreat!"  protested  Kirke  who  had 
proffered  the  bet. 


The  Vision  265 

"  Why  not  ?  "  snapped  old  Poultney  Masters.  "  Got  any  objec 
tions?" 

Since  the  making  or  marring  of  his  fortunes,  like  those  of  hun 
dreds  of  other  men,  lay  in  the  pudgy  hollow  of  the  financier's 
hand,  poor  Kirke  had  no  objections  which  he  could  not  and  did 
not  at  once  swallow.  The  subject  of  the  flattering  offer  had, 
however. 

"I'm  much  obliged,"  said  he.  "But  I  couldn't  join  this  club. 
Can't  afford  it." 

"You  can't  afford  not  to.  It's  a  chance  not  many  young  fel 
lows  from  nowhere  get," 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  what  a  reporter's  earnings  are,  Mr. 
Masters." 

The  rest  of  the  group  had  drifted  away,  in  obedience,  Banneker 
suspected,  to  some  indication  given  by  Masters  which  he  had  not 
perceived. 

"You  won't  be  a  reporter  long.  Opportunities  will  open  out 
for  a  young  fellow  of  your  kind." 

"What  sort  of  opportunities?"  inquired  Banneker  curiously. 

"Wall  Street,  for  example." 

"I  don't  think  I'd  like  the  game.  Writing  is  my  line.  I'm 
going  to  stick  to  it." 

"You're  a  fool,"  barked  Masters. 

"That  is  a  word  I  don't  take  from  anybody,"  stated  Banneker. 

" You  don't  take?  Who  the—  "  The  raucous  snarl  broke 
into  laughter,  as  the  other  leaned  abruptly  forward.  "  Banneker," 
he  said,  "have  you  got  me  covered?" 

Banneker  laughed,  too.  Despite  his  brutal  assumption  of 
autocracy,  it  was  impossible  not  to  like  this  man.  "No,"  he 
answered.  "  I  didn't  expect  to  be  held  up  here.  So  I  left  my  gun." 

"You  did  a  job  on  that  pier,"  affirmed  the  other.  "But  you're 
a  fool  just  the  same  —  if  you'll  take  it  with  a  smile." 

"I'll  think  it  over,"  answered  Banneker,  as  Densmore  entered. 

"Come  and  see  me  at  the  office,"  invited  Masters  as  he 
shambled  pursily  away. 

Across  the  dining-table  Densmore  said  to  his  guest:  "So  the 
Old  Boy  wants  to  put  you  up  here." 


266  Success 

"Yes." 

"That  means  a  sure  election." 

"  But  even  if  I  could  afford  it,  I'd  get  very  little  use  of  the  club. 
You  see,  I  have  only  one  day  off  a  week." 

"It  is  a  rotten  business,  for  sure!"  said  Densmore  sympa 
thetically.  "  Couldn't  you  get  on  night  work,  so  you  could  play 
afternoons?" 

"Play  polo?"  Banneker  laughed.  "My  means  would  hardly 
support  one  pony." 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  returned  the  other  nonchalantly. 
"There  are  always  fellows  glad  to  lend  a  mount  to  a  good  player. 
And  you're  going  to  be  that." 

The  high  lust  of  the  game  took  and  shook  Banneker  for  a  dim 
moment.  Then  he  recovered  himself.  "No.  I  couldn't  do  that." 

"Let's  leave  it  this  way,  then.  Whether  you  join  now  or  not, 
come  down  once  in  a  while  as  my  guest,  and  fill  in  for  the  scratch 
matches.  Later  you  may  be  able  to  pick  up  a  few  nags,  cheap." 

"I'll  think  it  over,"  said  Banneker,  as  he  had  said  to  old 
Poultney  Masters. 

Not  until  after  the  dinner  did  Banneker  remind  his  host  of 
their  understanding.  "You  haven't  forgotten  that  I'm  here  on 
business?" 

"  No ;  I  haven't.  I'm  going  to  answer  your  question  for  publi 
cation.  Mrs.  Eyre  has  not  the  slightest  intention  of  suing  for 
divorce." 

"About  the  separation?" 

"No.  No  separation,  either.  lo  is  traveling  with  friends  and 
will  be  back  in  a  few  months." 

"That  is  authoritative?" 

"You  can  quote  me,  if  you  like,  though  I'd  rather  nothing 
were  published,  of  course.  And  I  give  you  my  personal  word  that 
it's  true." 

"That's  quite  enough." 

"So  much  for  publication.  What  follows  is  private:  just  be 
tween  you  and  me." 

Banneker  nodded.  After  a  ruminative  pause  Densmore  asked 
an  abrupt  question. 


The  Vision  267 

* ____^_^^____^^_ 

"You  found  my  sister  after  the  wreck,  didn't  you?" 

"Well;  she  found  me." 

"Was  she  hurt?" 

"Yes." 

"Badly?" 

"I  think  not.  There  was  some  concussion  of  the  brain,  I  sup 
pose.  She  was  quite  dazed." 

"Did  you  call  a  doctor?" 

"No.  She  wouldn't  have  one." 

"You  know  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  don't  you?"  , 

"She's  the  best  friend  I've  got  in  the  world,"  returned  Ban- 
Bejrer,  sc  impulsively  that  his  interrogator  looked  at  him  curi 
ously  before  continuing : 

"Did  you  see  lo  at  her  house?" 

'•'Yes;  frequently,"  replied  Banneker,  wondering  to  what  this 
all  tended,  but  resolved  to  be  as  frank  as  was  compatible  with 
discretion. 

"How  did  she  seem?" 

"  She  was  as  well  off  there  as  she  could  be  anywhere." 

"Yes.  But  how  did  she  seem?  Mentally,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  that!  The  dazed  condition  cleared  up  at  once." 

"I  wish  I  were  sure  that  it  had  ever  cleared  up,"  muttered 
Densmore. 

"Why  shouldn't  you  be  sure?" 

"I'm  going  to  be  frank  with  you  because  I  think  you  may  be 
able  to  help  me  with  a  clue.  Since  she  came  back  from  the  West, 
lo  has  been  unlike  herself.  The  family  has  never  understood  her 
marriage  with  Del  Eyre.  She  didn't  really  care  for  Del.  [To 
his  dismay,  Banneker  here  beheld  the  glowing  tip  of  his  cigar 
perform  sundry  involuntary  dips  and  curves.  He  hoped  that  his 
face  was  under  better  control.]  The  marriage  was  a  fizzle.  I 
don't  believe  it  lasted  a  month,  really.  Eyre  had  always  been  a 
chaser,  though  he  did  straighten  out  when  he  married  lo.  He 
really  was  crazy  about  her ;  but  when  she  chucked  him,  he  went 
back  to  his  old  hunting  grounds.  One  can  understand  that.  But 
lo ;  that's  different.  She's  always  played  the  game  before.  With 
Del,  I  don't  think  she  quite  did.  She  quit :  that's  the  plain  fact 


268  Success 

of  it.  Just  tired  of  him.  No  other  cause  that  I  can  find.  Won't 
get  a  divorce.  Doesn't  want  it.  So  there's  no  one  else  in  the  case. 
It's  queer.  It's  mighty  queer.  And  I  can't  help  thinking  that 
the  old  jar  to  her  brain  — " 

"Have  you  suggested  that  to  her?"  asked  Banneker  as  the 
other  broke  off  to  ruminate  mournfully. 

"Yes.  She  only  laughed.  Then  she  said  that  poor  old  Del 
wasn't  at  fault  except  for  marrying  her  in  the  face  of  a  warning. 
I  don't  know  what  she  meant  by  it ;  hanged  if  I  do.  But,  you  see, 
it's  quite  true :  there'll  be  no  divorce  or  separation. .  .  .  You're 
sure  she  was  quite  normal  when  you  last  saw  her  at  Miss  Van 
Arsdale's?" 

"Absolutely.  If  you  want  confirmation,  why  not  write  Miss 
Van  Arsdale  yourself?" 

"No ;  I  hardly  think  I'll  do  that. . .  .Now  as  to  that  gray  you 
rode,  I've  got  a  chance  to  trade  him."  And  the  talk  became  all 
of  horse,  which  is  exclusive  and  rejective  of  other  interests,  even 
of  women. 

Going  back  in  the  train,  Banneker  reviewed  the  crowding 
events  of  the  day.  At  the  bottom  of  his  thoughts  lay  a  residue, 
acid  and  stinging,  the  shame  of  the  errand  which  had  taken  him 
to  The  Retreat,  and  which  the  memory  of  what  was  no  less  than 
a  personal  triumph  could  not  submerge.  That  he,  Errol  Ban 
neker,  whose  dealings  with  all  men  had  been  on  the  straight  and 
level  status  of  self-respect,  should  have  taken  upon  him  the 
ignoble  task  of  prying  into  intimate  affairs,  of  meekly  soliciting 
the  most  private  information  in  order  that  he  might  make  his 
living  out  of  it  —  not  different  in  kind  from  the  mendicancy 
which,  even  as  a  hobo,  he  had  scorned  —  and  that,  at  the  end, 
he  should  have  discerned  lo  Welland  as  the  object  of  his  scandal- 
chase;  that  fermented  within  him  like  something  turned  to 
foulness. 

At  the  office  he  reported  "no  story."  Before  going  home  he 
wrote  a  note  to  the  city  desk. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IMPENETRABILITY  of  expression  is  doubtless  a  valuable  attribute 
to  a  joss.  Otherwise  so  many  josses  would  not  display  it.  Upon 
the  stony  and  placid  visage  of  Mr.  Greenough,  never  more  joss- 
like  than  when,  on  the  morning  after  Banneker  went  to  The  Re 
treat,  he  received  the  resultant  note,  the  perusal  thereof  pro 
duced  no  effect.  Nor  was  there  anything  which  might  justly  be 
called  an  expression,  discernible  between  Mr.  Greenough's 
cloven  chin-tip  and  Mr.  Greenough's  pale  fringe  of  hair,  when, 
as  Banneker  entered  the  office  at  noon,  he  called  the  reporter  to 
him.  Banneker's  face,  on  the  contrary,  displayed  a  quite  differ 
ent  impression ;  that  of  amiability. 

"Nothing  in  the  Eyre  story,  Mr.  Banneker!" 

"Not  a  thing." 

"You  saw  Mr.  Densmore?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Would  he  talk?" 

"Yes;  he  made  a  statement." 

"It  didn't  appear  in  the  paper." 

"There  was  nothing  to  it  but  unqualified  denial." 

"I  see ;  I  see.  That's  all,  Mr.  Banneker Oh,  by  the  way." 

Banneker,  who  had  set  out  for  his  desk,  turned  back. 

"I  had  a  note  from  you  this  morning." 

As  this  statement  required  no  confirmation,  Banneker  gave  it 
none. 

"Containing  your  resignation." 

"Conditional  upon  my  being  assigned  to  pry  into  society  or 
private  scandals  or  rumors  of  them." 

"The  Ledger  does  not  recognize  conditional  resignation." 

"Very  well."  Banneker's  smile  was  as  sunny  and  untroubled 
as  a  baby's. 

"I  suppose  you  appreciate  that  some  one  must  cover  this  kind 
of  news." 

"Yes.  It  will  have  to  be  some  one  else." 


270  Success 

The  faintest,  fleeting  suspicion  of  a  frown  troubled  the  Brah- 
minical  calm  of  Mr.  Greenough's  brow,  only  to  pass  into  un- 
wrinkled  blandness. 

"Further,  you  will  recognize  that,  for  the  protection  of  the 
paper,  I  must  have  at  call  reporters  ready  to  perform  any 
emergency  duty." 

"Perfectly,"  agreed  Banneker. 

"Mr.  Banneker,"  queried  Mr.  Greenough  in  a  semi-purr,  "are 
you  too  good  for  your  job?" 

"Certainly." 

For  once  the  personification  of  city-deskness,  secure  though  he 
was  in  the  justice  of  his  position,  was  discomfited.  "Too  good  for 
The  Ledger?"  he  demanded  in  protest  and  rebuke. 

"Let  me  put  it  this  way ;  I'm  too  good  for  any  job  that  won't 
let  me  look  a  man  square  between  the  eyes  when  I  meet  him  on 
it." 

"A  dull  lot  of  newspapers  we'd  have  if  all  reporters  took  that 
view,"  muttered  Mr.  Greenough. 

"It  strikes  me  that  what  you've  just  said  is  the  severest  kind 
of  an  indictment  of  the  whole  business,  then,"  retorted  Banneker. 

"A  business  that  is  good  enough  for  a  good  many  first-class 
men,  even  though  you  may  not  consider  it  so  for  you.  Possibly 
being  for  the  time  —  for  a  brief  time  —  a  sort  of  public  figure, 
yourself,  has  — 

"Nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it,"  interrupted  the  urbane  re 
porter.  "I've  always  been  this  way.  It  was  born  in  me." 

"I  shall  consult  with  Mr.  Gordon  about  this,"  said  Mr. 
Greenough,  becoming  joss-like  again.  "I  hardly  think — "  But 
what  it  was  that  he  hardly  thought,  the  subject  of  his  animad 
versions  did  not  then  or  subsequently  ascertain,  for  he  was  dis 
missed  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence  with  a  slow,  complacent  nod. 

Loss  of  his  place,  had  it  promptly  followed,  would  not  have 
dismayed  the  rebel.  It  did  not  follow.  Nothing  followed.  Noth 
ing,  that  is,  out  of  the  ordinary  run.  Mr.  Gordon  said  no  word. 
Mr.  Greenough  made  no  reference  to  the  resignation.  Tommy 
Burt,  to  whom  Banneker  had  confided  his  action,  was  of  opinion 
that  the  city  desk  was  merely  waiting  "to  hand  you  something 


The  Vision  271 

so  raw  that  you'll  have  to  buck  it ;  something  that  not  even  Joe 
Bullen  would  take."  Joe  Bullen,  an  undertaker's  assistant  who 
had  drifted  into  journalism  through  being  a  tipster,  was  The 
Ledger's  "keyhole  reporter"  (unofficial). 

"The  joss  is  just  tricky  enough  for  that,"  said  Tommy. 
"He'll  want  to  put  you  in  the  wrong  with  Gordon.  You're  a  pet 
of  the  boss's." 

"Don't  blame  Greenough,"  said  Banneker.  "If  you  were  on 
the  desk  you  wouldn't  want  reporters  that  wouldn't  take  orders." 

Van  Cleve,  oldest  in  standing  of  any  of  the  staff,  approached 
Banneker  with  a  grave  face  and  solemn  warnings.  To  leave  The 
Ledger  was  to  depart  forever  from  the  odor  of  journalistic  sanc 
tity.  No  other  office  in  town  was  endurable  for  a  gentleman. 
Other  editors  treated  their  men  like  muckers.  The  worst  assign 
ment  given  out  from  The  Ledger  desk  was  a  perfumed  cinch  in 
comparison  with  what  the  average  city  room  dealt  out.  And  he 
gave  a  formidable  sketch  of  the  careers  (invariably  downhill)  of 
reckless  souls  who  had  forsaken  the  true  light  of  The  Ledger  for 
the  false  lures  which  led  into  outer  and  unfathomable  darkness. 
By  this  system  of  subtly  threatened  excommunication  had  The 
Ledger  saved  to  itself  many  a  good  man  who  might  otherwise 
have  gone  farther  and  not  necessarily  fared  worse.  Banneker  was 
not  frightened.  But  he  did  give  more  than  a  thought  to  the  con 
siderate  standards  and  generous  comradeship  of  the  office. 
Only  —  was  it  worth  the  price  in  occasional  humiliation? 

Sitting,  idle  at  his  desk  in  one  of  the  subsequent  periods  of 
penance,  he  bethought  him  of  the  note  on  the  stationery  of  The 
New  Era  Magazine,  signed,  "Yours  very  truly,  Richard  W. 
Gaines."  Perhaps  this  was  opportunity  beckoning.  He  would  go 
to  see  the  Great  Gaines. 

The  Great  Gaines  received  him  with  quiet  courtesy.  He  was  a 
stubby,  thick,  bearded  man  who  produced  an  instant  effect  of 
entire  candor.  So  peculiar  and  exotic  was  this  quality  that  it 
seemed  to  set  him  apart  from  the  genus  of  humankind  in  an  aura 
of  alien  and  daunting  honesty.  Banneker  recalled  hearing  of  out 
rageous  franknesses  from  his  lips,  directed  upon  small  and  great, 
and,  most  amazingly,  accepted  without  offense,  because  of  the 


272  Success 

translucent  purity  of  the  medium  through  which,  as  it  were,  the 
inner  prophet  had  spoken.  Besides,  he  was  usually  right. 

His  first  words  to  Banneker,  after  his  greeting,  were :  "  You  are 
exceedingly  well  tailored." 

"Does  it  matter?"  asked  Banneker,  smiling. 

"I'm  disappointed.  I  had  read  into  your  writing  midnight  toil 
and  respectable,  if  seedy,  self-support." 

"After  the  best  Grub  Street  tradition?  Park  Row  has  out 
lived  that." 

"I  know  your  tailor,  but  what's  your  college?"  inquired  this 
surprising  man. 

Banneker  shook  his  head. 

"At  least  I  was  right  in  that.  I  surmised  individual  education. 
Who  taught  you  to  think  for  yourself?" 

"My  father." 

"It's  an  uncommon  name.  You're  not  a  son  of  Christian 
Banneker,  perhaps?" 

"  Yes.  Did  you  know  him  ?  " 

"A  mistaken  man.  Whoring  after  strange  gods.  Strange, 
sterile,  and  disappointing.  But  a  brave  soul,  nevertheless.  Yes ; 
I  knew  him  well.  What  did  he  teach  you?  " 

"He  tried  to  teach  me  to  stand  on  my  own  feet  and  see  with 
my  own  eyes  and  think  for  myself." 

"  Ah,  yes !  With  one's  own  eyes.  So  much  depends  upon  whither 
one  turns  them. . .  .  What  have  you  seen  in  daily  journalism  ?  " 

"  A  chance.  Possibly  a  great  chance." 

"To  think  for  yourself?" 

Banneker  started,  at  this  ready  application  of  his  words  to  the 
problem  which  was  already  outlining  itself  by  small,  daily  lim- 
nings  in  his  mind. 

"To  write  for  others  what  you  think  for  yourself?"  pursued 
the  editor,  giving  sharpness  and  definition  to  the  outline. 

"Or,"  concluded  Mr.  Gaines,  as  his  hearer  preserved  silence, 
"  eventually  to  write  for  others  whai  they  think  for  themselves  ?  " 
He  smiled  luminously.  "It's  a  problem  in  stress :  x  —  the  break 
ing-point  of  honesty.  Your  father  was  an  absurdly  honest  man. 
Those  of  us  who  knew  him  best  honored  him." 


The  Vision  273 

"Are  you  doubting  my  honesty?"  inquired  Banneker,  with 
out  resentment  or  challenge. 

"Why,  yes.  Anybody's.  But  hopefully,  you  understand." 

"Or  the  honesty  of  the  newspaper  business?" 

A  sigh  ruffled  the  closer  tendrils  of  Mr.  Gaines's  beard.  "I 
have  never  been  a  journalist  in  the  Park  Row  sense,"  he  said 
regretfully.  "Therefore  I  am  conscious  of  solutions  of  continuity 
in  my  views.  Park  Row  amazes  me.  It  also  appalls  me.  The 
daily  stench  that  arises  from  the  printing-presses.  Two  clouds ; 
morning  and  evening. .  .  .  Perhaps  it  is  only  the  odor  of  the  fer 
tilizing  agent,  stimulating  the  growth  of  ideas.  Or  is  it  sheer 
corruption?" 

"Two  stages  of  the  same  process,  aren't  they?"  suggested 
Banneker. 

"Encouraging  to  think  so.  Yet  labor  in  a  fertilizing  plant, 
though  perhaps  essential,  is  hardly  conducive  to  higher  thinking. 
You  like  it?" 

"I  don't  accept  your  definition  at  all,"  replied  Banneker. 
"The  newspapers  are  only  a  medium.  If  there  is  a  stench,  they 
do  not  originate  it.  They  simply  report  the  events  of  the  day." 

"Exactly.  They  simply  disseminate  it." 

Banneker  was  annoyed  at  himself  for  flushing.  "They  dis 
seminate  news.  We've  got  to  have  news,  to  carry  on  the  world. 
Only  a  small  fraction  of  it  is  —  well,  malodorous.  Would  you 
destroy  the  whole  system  because  of  one  flaw?  You're  not  fair." 

"  Fair?  Of  course  I'm  not.  How  should  I  be ?  No ;  I  would  not 
destroy  the  system.  Merely  deodorize  it  a  bit.  But  I  suppose 
the  public  likes  the  odors.  It  sniffs  'em  up  like  —  like  Cyrano  in 
the  bake-shop.  A  marvelous  institution,  the  public  which  you 
and  I  serve.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  magazine  work,  Mr. 
Banneker?" 

"A  little." 

"There  might  be  a  considerable  future  there  for  you.  I  say 
1  might.'  Nothing  is  more  uncertain.  But  you  have  certain  —  er 
—  stigmata  of  the  writer  —  That  article,  now,  about  the  funereal 
eulogies  over  the  old  builder ;  did  you  report  that  talk  as  it  was?  " 

"  Approximately." 


274  Success 

"How  approximately?" 

"  Well ;  the  basic  idea  was  there.  The  old  fellows  gave  me  that, 
and  I  fitted  it  up  with  talk.  Surely  there's  nothing  dishonest 
in  that,"  protested  Banneker. 

" Surely  not,"  agreed  the  other.  "You  gave  the  essence  of  the 
thing.  That  is  a  higher  veracity  than  any  literal  reporting  which 
would  be  dull  and  unreadable.  I  thought  I  recognized  the  fic 
tional  quality  in  the  dialogue." 

"But  it  wasn't  fiction,"  denied  Banneker  eagerly. 

The  Great  Gaines  gave  forth  one  of  his  oracles.  "But  it  was. 
Good  dialogue  is  talk  as  it  should  be  talked,  just  as  good  fiction 
is  life  as  it  should  be  lived  —  logically  and  consecutively.  Why 
don't  you  try  something  for  The  New  Era?" 

"I  have." 

"When?" 

"Before  I  got  your  note." 

"It  never  reached  me." 

"It  never  reached  anybody.  It's  in  my  desk,  ripening." 

"Send  it  along,  green,  won't  you?  It  may  give  more  indica 
tions  that  way.  And  first  work  is  likely  to  be  valuable  chiefly  as 
indication." 

"  I'll  mail  it  to  you.  Before  I  go,  would  you  mind  telling  me  more 
definitely  why  you  advise  me  against  the  newspaper  business?" 

"I  advise?  I  never  advise  as  to  questions  of  morals  or  ethics. 
I  have  too  much  concern  with  keeping  my  own  straight." 

"Then  it  is  a  question  of  morals? " 

"Or  ethics.  I  think  so.  For  example,  have  you  tried  your 
hand  at  editorials?" 

"Yes." 

"Successfully?" 

"As  far  as  I've  gone." 

"Then  you  are  in  accord  with  the  editorial  policy  of  The 
Ledger?" 

"Not  in  everything." 

"In  its  underlying,  unexpressed,  and  immanent  theory  that 
this  country  can  best  be  managed  by  an  aristocracy,  a  chosen 
few,  working  under  the  guise  of  democracy?" 


The  Vision  275 

"No;  I  don't  believe  that,  of  course." 

"  I  do,  as  it  happens.  But  I  fail  to  see  how  Christian  Banne- 
ker's  son  and  tltve  could.  Yet  you  write  editorials  for  The 
Ledger." 

"Not  on  those  topics." 

"Have  you  never  had  your  editorials  altered  or  cut  or  amended, 
in  such  manner  as  to  give  a  side-slant  toward  the  paper's  edi 
torial  fetiches?" 

Again  and  most  uncomfortably  Banneker  felt  his  color  change. 
"Yes ;  I  have,"  he  admitted. 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"What  could  I  do?  The  Chief  controls  the  editorial  page." 

"You  might  have  stopped  writing  for  it." 

"I  needed  the  money.  No;  that  isn't  true.  More  than  the 
money,  I  wanted  the  practice  and  the  knowledge  that  I  could 
write  editorials  if  I  wished  to." 

"Are  you  thinking  of  going  on  the  editorial  side?" 

"God  forbid  !"  cried  Banneker. 

"Unwilling  to  deal  in  other  men's  ideas,  eh?  Well,  Mr.  Ban 
neker,  you  have  plenty  of  troubles  before  you.  Interesting  ones, 
however." 

"How  much  could  I  make  by  magazine  writing?"  asked 
Banneker  abruptly. 

"Heaven  alone  knows.  Less  than  you  need,  I  should  say,  at 
first.  How  much  do  you  need?" 

"My  space  bill  last  week  was  one  hundred  and  twenty-one 
dollars.  I  filled  'em  up  on  Sunday  specials." 

"And  you  need  that?" 

"It's  all  gone,"  grinned  Banneker  boyishly. 

"As  between  a  safe  one  hundred  dollars-plus,  and  a  highly 
speculative  nothing-and-upwards,  how  could  any  prudent  person 
waver?"  queried  Mr.  Gaines  as  he  shook  hands  in  farewell. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  whole  unusual  interview,  Banneker 
found  himself  misliking  the  other's  tone,  particularly  in  the 
light  emphasis  placed  upon  the  word  prudent.  Banneker  did  not 
conceive  kindly  of  himself  as  a  prudent  person. 

Back  at  the  office,  Banneker  got  out  the  story  of  which  he  had 


276  Success 

spoken  to  Mr.  Gaines,  and  read  it  over.  It  seemed  to  him  good, 
and  quite  in  the  tradition  of  The  New  Era.  It  was  polite,  pol 
ished,  discreet,  and,  if  not  precisely  subtle,  it  dealt  with  inter 
ests  and  motives  lying  below  the  obvious  surfaces  of  life.  It  had 
amused  Banneker  to  write  it ;  which  is  not  to  say  that  he  spared 
laborious  and  conscientious  effort.  The  New  Era  itself  amused 
him,  with  its  air  of  well-bred  aloofness  from  the  flatulent  ro 
manticism  which  filled  the  more  popular  magazines  of  the  da** 
with  duke-like  drummers  or  drummer-like  dukes,  amiable 
criminals  and  brisk  young  business  geniuses,  possessed  of  rather 
less  moral  sense  than  the  criminals,  for  its  heroes,  and  for  its  hero 
ines  a  welter  of  adjectives  exhaling  an  essence  of  sex.  Banneker 
could  imagine  one  of  these  females  straying  into  Mr.  Gaines's 
editorial  ken,  and  that  gentleman's  bland  greeting  as  to  his  own 
sprightly  second  maid  arrayed  and  perfumed,  unexpectedly 
encountered  at  a  charity  bazar.  Too  rarefied  for  Banneker's 
healthy  and  virile  young  tastes,  the  atmosphere  in  which  The 
New  Era  lived  and  moved  and  had  its  consistently  successful 
editorial  being!  He  preferred  a  freer  air  to  the  mild  scents  of 
lavender  and  rose-ash,  even  though  it  might  blow  roughly  at 
times.  Nevertheless,  that  which  was  fine  and  fastidious  in  his 
mind  recognized  and  admired  the  restraint,  the  dignity,  the  high 
and  honorably  maintained  standards  of  the  monthly.  It  had 
distinction.  It  stood  apart  from  and  consciously  above  the  read 
ing  mob.  In  some  respects  it  was  the  antithesis  of  that  success 
for  which  Park  Row  strove  and  sweated. 

Banneker  felt  that  he,  too,  could  claim  a  place  on  those  heights. 
Yes ;  he  liked  his  story.  He  thought  that  Mr.  Gaines  would  like 
it.  Having  mailed  it,  he  went  to  Katie's  to  dinner.  There  he 
found  Russell  Edmonds  discussing  his  absurdly  insufficient  pipe 
with  his  customary  air  of  careworn  watchfulness  lest  it  go  ov': 
and  leave  him  forlorn  and  unsolaced  in  a  harsh  world.  The 
veteran  turned  upon  the  newcomer  a  grim  twinkle. 

"Don't  you  do  it,"  he  advised  positively. 

"Do  what?" 

"Quit." 

"Who  told  you  I  was  considering  it?" 


The  Vision  277 

"Nobody.  I  knew  it  was  about  time  for  you  to  reach  that 
point.  We  all  do  —  at  certain  times." 

"Why?" 

"  Disenchantment.  Disillusionment.  Besides,  I  hear  the  city 
desk  has  been  horsing  you." 

"Then  some  one  has  been  blabbing." 

"Oh,  those  things  ooze  out.  Can't  keep  'em  in.  Besides,  all 
city  desks  do  that  to  cubs  who  come  up  too  fast.  It's  part  of  the 
discipline.  Like  hazing." 

"There  are  some  things  a  man  can't  do,"  said  Banneker  with  a 
.sort  of  appeal  in  his  voice. 

"Nothing,"  returned  Edmonds  positively.  "Nothing  he  can't 
do  to  get  the  news." 

"Did  you  ever  peep  through  a  keyhole?" 

"  Figuratively  speaking  ?  " 

"If  you  like.  Either  way." 

"Yes." 

"Would  you  do  it  to-day?" 

"No." 

"Then  it's  a  phase  a  reporter  has  to  go  through?" 

"Or  quit." 

"You  haven't  quit?" 

"I  did.  For  a  time.  In  a  way.  I  went  to  jail." 

"Jail?  You?"  Banneker  had  a  flash  of  intuition.  "I'll  bet  it 
was  for  something  you  were  proud  of." 

"I  wasn't  ashamed  of  the  jail  sentence,  at  any  rate.  Young 
ster,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  this."  Edmonds's  fine  eyes 
seemed  to  have  receded  into  their  hollows  as  he  sat  thinking  with 
his  pipe  neglected  on  the  table.  "D'you  know  who  Marna 
Corcoran  was?" 

"  An  actress,  wasn't  she  ?  " 

"Leading  lady  at  the  old  Coliseum  Theater.  A  good  actress 
and  a  good  woman.  I  was  a  cub  then  on  The  Sphere  under  Red 
McGraw,  the  worst  gutter-pup  that  ever  sat  at  a  city  desk,  and 
a  damned  good  newspaper  man.  In  those  days  The  Sphere 
specialized  on  scandals;  the  rottener,  the  better;  stuff  that  it 
wouldn't  touch  to-day.  Well,  a  hell-cat  of  a  society  woman  sued 


278  Success 

her  husband  for  divorce  and  named  Miss  Corcoran.  Pure  vicious- 
ness,  it  was.  There  wasn't  a  shadow  of  proof,  or  even  suspicion." 

"I  remember  something  about  that  case.  The  woman  with 
drew  the  charge,  didn't  she?" 

"When  it  was  too  late.  Red  McGraw  had  an  early  tip  and 
sent  me  to  interview  Marna  Corcoran.  He  let  me  know  pretty 
plainly  that  my  job  depended  on  my  landing  the  story.  That  was 
his  style ;  a  bully.  Well,  I  got  the  interview ;  never  mind  how. 
When  I  left  her  home  Miss  Corcoran  was  in  a  nervous  collapse. 
I  reported  to  McGraw.  '  Keno ! '  says  he.  '  Give  us  a  column  and 
a  half  of  it.  Spice  it.'  I  spiced  it  —  I  guess.  They  tel  me  it  was  a 
good  job.  I  got  lost  in  the  excitement  of  writing  and  forgot  what 
I  was  dealing  with,  a  woman.  We  had  a  beat  on  that  interview. 
They  raised  my  salary,  I  remember.  A  week  later  Red  called  me 
to  the  desk.  'Got  another  story  for  you,  Edmonds.  A  hummer. 
Marna  Corcoran  is  in  a  private  sanitarium  up  in  Connecticut ; 
hopelessly  insane.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  our  story  did  it.'  He 
grinned  like  an  ape.  '  Go  up  there  and  get  it.  Buy  your  way  in,  if 
necessary.  You  can  always  get  to  some  of  the  attendants  with  a 
ten-spot.  Find  out  what  she  raves  about;  whether  it's  about 
Allison.  Perhaps  she's  given  herself  away.  Give  us  another  red- 
hot  one  on  it.  Here's  the  address.' 

"I  wadded  up  the  paper  and  stuffed  it  in  his  mouth.  His  lips 
felt  pulpy.  He  hit  me  with  a  lead  paper-weight  and  cut  my  head 
open.  I  don't  know  that  I  even  hit  him ;  I  didn't  specially  want 
to  hit  him.  I  wanted  to  mark  him.  There  was  an  extra-size  open 
ink-well  on  his  desk.  I  poured  that  over  him  and  rubbed  it  into 
his  face.  Some  of  it  got  into  his  eyes.  How  he  yelled  !  Of  course 
he  had  me  arrested.  I  didn't  make  any  defense ;  I  couldn't  with 
out  bringing  in  Marna  Corcoran's  name.  The  Judge  thought  / 
was  crazy.  I  was,  pretty  near.  Three  months,  he  gave  me. 
When  I  came  out  Marna  Corcoran  was  dead.  I  went  to  find  Red 
McGraw  and  kill  him.  He  was  gone.  I  think  he  suspected  what 
I  would  do.  I've  never  set  eyes  on  him  since.  Two  local  news 
papers  sent  for  me  as  soon  as  my  term  was  up  and  offered  me 
jobs.  I  thought  it  was  because  of  what  I  had  done  to  McGraw.  It 
wasn't.  It  was  on  the  strength  of  the  Marna  Corcoran  interview." 


The  Vision  279 

" Good  God!" 

"I  needed  a  job,  too.  But  I  didn't  take  either  of  those.  Later 
I  got  a  better  one  with  a  decent  newspaper.  The  managing 
editor  said  when  he  took  me  on :  '  Mr.  Edmonds,  we  don't  ap 
prove  of  assaults  on  the  city  desk.  But  if  you  ever  receive  in  this 
office  an  assignment  of  the  kind  that  caused  your  outbreak,  you 
may  take  it  out  on  me.'  There  are  pretty  fine  people  in  the  news 
paper  business,  too." 

Edmonds  retrieved  his  pipe,  discovering  with  a  look  of  re 
proach  and  dismay  that  it  was  out.  He  wiped  away  some  tiny 
drops  of  sweat  which  had  come  out  upon  the  grayish  skin  be 
neath  his  eyes,  while  he  was  recounting  his  tragedy. 

"That  makes  my  troubles  seem  petty,"  said  Banneker,  under 
his  breath.  "  I  wonder  —  " 

"You  wonder  why  I  told  you  all  this,"  supplemented  the 
veteran.  "Since  I  have,  I'll  tell  you  the  rest ;  how  I  made  atone 
ment  in  a  way.  Ten  years  ago  I  was  on  a  city  desk  myself.  Not 
very  long ;  but  long  enough  to  find  I  didn't  like  it.  A  story  came 
to  me  through  peculiar  channels.  It  was  a  scandal  story ;  one  of 
those  things  that  New  York  society  whispers  about  all  over  the 
place,  yet  it's  almost  impossible  to  get  anything  to  go  on.  When 
I  tell  you  that  even  The  Searchlight,  which  lives  on  scandal, 
kept  off  it,  you  can  judge  how  dangerous  it  was.  Well ;  I  had  it 
pat.  It  was  really  big  stuff  of  its  kind.  The  woman  was  brilliant, 
a  daughter  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  noted  New  York  fami 
lies  ;  and  noted  in  her  own  right.  She  had  never  married :  pre 
ferred  to  follow  her  career.  The  man  was  eminent  in  his  line : 
not  a  society  figure,  except  by  marriage  —  his  wife  was  active 
in  the  Four  Hundred  —  because  he  had  no  tastes  in  that  direc 
tion.  He  was  nearly  twenty  years  senior  to  the  girl.  The  affair 
was  desperate  from  the  first.  How  far  it  went  is  doubtful ;  my 
informant  gave  it  the  worst  complexion.  Certainly  there  must 
have  been  compromising  circumstances,  for  the  wife  left  him, 
holding  over  him  the  threat  of  exposure.  He  cared  nothing  for 
himself ;  and  the  girl  would  have  given  up  everything  for  him. 
But  he  was  then  engaged  on  a  public  work  of  importance ;  ex 
posure  meant  the  ruin  of  that.  The  wife  made  conditions ;  that 


280  Success 

the  man  should  neither  speak  to,  see,  nor  communicate  with  the 
girl.  He  refused.  The  girl  went  into  exile  and  forced  him  to  make 
the  agreement.  My  informant  had  a  copy  of  the  letter  of  agree 
ment;  you  can  see  how  close  she  was  to  the  family.  She  said 
that,  if  we  printed  it,  the  man  would  instantly  break  barriers, 
seek  out  the  girl,  and  they  would  go  away  together.  A  front 
page  story,  and  exclusive." 

"So  it  was  a  woman  who  held  the  key !"  exclaimed  Banneker. 

Edmonds  turned  on  him.  "What  does  that  mean?  Do  you 
know  anything  of  the  story?  " 

"Not  all  that  you've  told  me.  I  know  the  people." 

"Then  why  did  you  let  me  go  on? " 

"Because  they  —  one  of  them  —  is  my  friend.  There  is  no 
harm  to  her  in  my  knowing.  It  might  even  be  helpful." 

"Nevertheless,  I  think  you  should  have  told  me  at  once," 
grumbled  the  veteran.  "Well,  I  didn't  take  the  story.  The 
informer  said  that  she  would  place  it  elsewhere.  I  told  her  that 
if  she  did  I  would  publish  the  whole  circumstances  of  her  visit 
and  offer,  and  make  New  York  too  hot  to  hold  her.  She  retired, 
bulging  with  venom  like  a  mad  snake.  But  she  dares  not  tell." 

"The  man's  wife,  was  it  not? " 

"Some  one  representing  her,  I  suspect.  A  bad  woman,  that 
wife.  But  I  saved  the  girl  in  memory  of  Marna  Corcoran.  Think 
what  the  story  would  be  worth,  now  that  the  man  is  coming 
forward  politically!"  Edmonds  smiled  wanly.  "It  was  worth  a 
lot  even  then,  and  I  threw  my  paper  down  on  it.  Of  course  I 
resigned  from  the  city  desk  at  once." 

"  It's  a  fascinating  game,  being  on  the  inside  of  the  big  things," 
ruminated  Banneker.  "But  when  it  comes  to  a  man's  enslaving 
himself  to  his  paper,  I  —  don't  —  know." 

"No :  you  won't  quit,"  prophesied  the  other. 

"I  have.  That  is,  I've  resigned." 

"Of  course.  They  all  do,  of  your  type.  It  was  the  peck  of  dirt, 
wasn't  it?" 

Banneker  nodded. 

"  Gordon  won't  let  you  go.  And  you  won't  have  any  more  dirt 
thrown  at  you  — probably.  If  you  do,  it'll  be  time  enough  then." 


The  Vision  281 

"There's  more  than  that." 

"Is  there?  What?" 

"We're  a  pariah  caste,  Edmonds,  we  reporters.  People  look 
down  on  us." 

"Oh,  that  be  damned !  You  can't  afford  to  be  swayed  by  the 
ignorance  or  snobbery  of  outsiders.  Play  the  game  straight,  and 
let  the  rest  go." 

"But  we  are,  aren't  we?"  persisted  Banneker. 

"What!  Pariahs?"  The  look  which  the  old-timer  bent  upon 
the  rising  star  of  the  business  had  in  it  a  quality  of  brooding  and 
affection.  "Son,  you're  too  young  to  have  come  properly  to  that 
frame  of  mind.  That  comes  later.  With  the  dregs  of  disillusion 
after  the  sparkle  has  died  out." 

"But  it's  true.  You  admit  it." 

"  If  an  outsider  said  that  we  were  pariahs  I'd  call  him  a  liar. 
But,  what's  the  use,  with  you  ?  It  isn't  reporting  alone.  It's  the 
whole  business  of  news-getting  and  news-presenting ;  of  journal 
ism.  We're  under  suspicion.  They're  afraid  of  us.  And  at  the 
same  time  they're  contemptuous  of  us." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  people  are  mostly  fools  and  fools  are  afraid  or  con 
temptuous  of  what  they  don't  understand." 

Banneker  thought  it  over.  "No.  That  won't  do,"  he  decided. 
"  Men  that  aren't  fools  and  aren't  afraid  distrust  us  and  despise 
the  business.  Edmonds,  there's  nothing  wrong,  essentially,  in 
furnishing  news  for  the  public.  It's  part  of  the  spread  of  truth. 
It's  the  handing  on  of  the  light.  It's  —  it's  as  big  a  thing  as 
religion,  isn't  it?" 

"Bigger.  Religion,  seven  days  a  week." 

"Well,  then— " 

"I  know,  son,"  said  Edmonds  gently.  "You're  thirsting  for 
the  clear  and  restoring  doctrine  of  journalism.  And  I'm  going  to 
give  you  hell's  own  heresy.  You'll  come  to  it  anyway,  in  time." 
His  fierce  little  pipe  glowed  upward  upon  his  knotted  brows. 
"You  talk  about  truth,  news:  news  and  truth  as  one  and  the 
same  thing.  So  they  are.  But  newspapers  aren't  after  news :  not 
primarily.  Can't  you  see  that?" 


282  Success 

"No.  What  are  they  after?" 

"Sensation." 

Banneker  turned  the  word  over  in  his  mind,  evoking  confirma 
tion  in  the  remembered  headlines  even  of  the  reputable  Ledger. 

"Sensation,"  repeated  the  other.  "We've  got  the  speed-up 
motto  in  industry.  Our  newspaper  version  of  it  is  *  spice-up.'  A 
conference  that  may  change  the  map  of  Europe  will  be  crowded 
off  any  front  page  any  day  by  young  Mrs.  Poultney  Masters 
making  a  speech  in  favor  of  giving  girls  night-keys,  or  of  some 
empty-headed  society  dame  being  caught  in  a  roadhouse  with 
another  lady's  hubby.  Spice:  that's  what  we're  looking  for. 
Something  to  tickle  their  jaded  palates.  And  they  despise  us 
when  we  break  our  necks  or  our  hearts  to  get  it  for  'em." 

"But  if  it's  what  they  want,  the  fault  lies  with  the  public,  not 
with  us,"  argued  Banneker. 

"I  used  to  know  a  white-sfuff  man  —  a  cocaine  seller  —  who 
had  the  same  argument  down  pat,"  retorted  Edmonds  quietly. 

Banneker  digested  that  for  a  time  before  continuing. 

"Besides,  you  imply  that  because  news  is  sensational,  it  m->st 
be  unworthy.  That  isn't  fair.  Big  news  is  always  sensational. 
And  of  course  the  public  wants  sensation.  After  all;  stiisaticn 
of  one  sort  or  another  is  the  proof  of  life." 

"Hence  the  noble  profession  of  the  pander,"  ODserved 
Edmonds  through  a  coil  of  minute  and  ascenoing  Bnokd-ttDgS. 
"He  also  serves  the  public." 

"You're  not  drawing  a  parallel  — " 

"Oh,  no!  It  isn't  the  same  thing,  ouit3.  But  it's  the  same 
public.  Let  me  tell  you  something  to  remember,  youngster. 
The  men  who  go  to  the  top  in  icu/na ism,  the  big  rrien  of  power 
and  success  and  grasp,  come  tnrough  vrth  a  contempt  for  the 
public  which  they  serve,  compared  tc  which  the  contempt  of  the 
public  for  the  newspaper  is  as  skim  milk  ic  corrosive  sublimate." 

"Perhaps  that's  what  is  wrong  with  the  business,  then." 

"Have  you  any  idea,"  inquired  Edmonds  softly,  "what  the 
philosophy  of  the  Most  Ancient  Profession  is?" 

Banneker  shook  his  head. 

"I  once  heard  a  street-walker  on  the  verge  of  D.  T.'s—  bhe 


The  Vision  283 

was  intelligent ;  most  of  'em  are  fools  —  express  her  analytical 
opinion  of  the  men  who  patronized  her.  The  men  who  make  our 
news  system  have  much  the  same  notion  of  their  public.  How 
much  poison  they  scatter  abroad  we  won't  know  until  a  later 
diagnosis." 

"Yet  you  advise  me  to  stick  in  the  business." 

"You've  got  to.  You  are  marked  for  it." 

"And  help  scatter  the  poison !" 

"God  forbid !  I've  been  pointing  out  the  disease  of  the  busi 
ness.  There's  a  lot  of  health  in  it  yet.  But  it's  got  to  have  new 
blood.  I'm  too  old  to  do  more  than  help  a  little.  Son,  you've 
got  the  stuff  in  you  to  do  the  trick.  Some  one  is  going  to  make  a 
newspaper  here  in  this  rotten,  stink-breathing,  sensation-sniffing 
town  that'll  be  based  on  news.  Truth  !  There's  your  religion  for 
you.  Go  to  it." 

"And  serve  a  public  that  I'll  despise  as  soon  as  I  get  strong 
enough  to  disregard  it's  contempt  for  me,"  smiled  Banneker. 

"You'll  find  a  public  that  you  can't  afford  to  despise,"  re 
torted  the  veteran.  "There  is  such  a  public.  It's  waiting." 

"Well;  I'll  know  in  a  couple  of  weeks,"  said  Banneker. 
"But  /  think  I'm  about  through." 

For  Edmonds's  bitter  wisdom  had  gone  far  toward  confirming 
his  resolution  to  follow  up  his  first  incursion  into  the  magazine 
field  if  it  met  with  the  success  which  he  confidently  expected  of  it. 

As  if  to  hold  him  to  his  first  allegiance,  the  ruling  spirits  of 
The  Ledger  now  began  to  make  things  easy  for  him.  Fat  assign 
ments  came  his  way  again.  Events  which  seemed  almost  made 
to  order  for  his  pen  were  turned  over  to  him  by  the  city  desk. 
Even  though  he  found  little  time  for  Sunday  "specials,"  his 
space  ran  from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  dollars  a  day,  and  the 
"Eban"  skits  on  the  editorial  page,  now  paid  at  double  rates 
because  of  their  popularity,  added  a  pleasant  surplus.  To  put  a 
point  to  his  mysteriously  restored  favor,  Mr.  Greenough  called 
up  one  hot  morning  and  asked  Banneker  to  make  what  speed  he 
could  to  Sippiac,  New  Jersey.  Rioting  had  broken  out  between 
mill-guards  and  the  strikers  of  the  International  Cloth  Company 
factories,  with  a  number  of  resulting  fatalities.  It  was  a  "big 


284  Success 

story."  That  Banneker  was  specially  fitted,  through  his  familiar 
ity  with  the  ground,  to  handle  it,  the  city  editor  was  not,  of 
course,  aware. 

At  Sippiac,  Banneker  found  the  typical  industrial  tragedy  of 
that  time  and  condition,  worked  out  to  its  logical  conclusion. 
On  the  one  side  a  small  army  of  hired  gun-men,  assured  of  full 
protection  and  endorsement  in  whatever  they  might  do :  on  the 
other  a  mob  of  assorted  foreigners,  ignorant,  resentful  of  the  law, 
which  seemed  only  a  huge  mechanism  of  injustice  manipulated 
by  their  oppressors,  inflamed  by  the  heavy  potations  of  a  festal 
night  carried  over  into  the  next  day,  and,  because  of  the  crimi 
nally  lax  enforcement  of  the  law,  tacitly  permitted  to  go  armed. 
Who  had  started  the  clash  was  uncertain  and,  perhaps  in  essen 
tials,  immaterial ;  so  perfectly  and  fatefully  had  the  stage  been 
set  for  mutual  murder.  At  the  close  of  the  fray  there  were  ten 
dead.  One  was  a  guard :  the  rest,  strikers  or  their  dependents, 
including  a  woman  and  a  six-year-old  child,  both  shot  down 
while  running  away. 

By  five  o'clock  that  afternoon  Banneker  was  in  the  train  re 
turning  to  the  city  with  a  board  across  his  knees,  writing.  Five 
hours  later  his  account  was  finished.  At  the  end  of  his  work,  he 
had  one  of  those  ideas  for  " pointing"  a  story,  mere  common 
places  of  journalism  nowadays,  which  later  were  to  give  him  his 
editorial  reputation.  In  the  pride  of  his  publicity-loving  soul, 
Mr.  Horace  Vanney,  chief  owner  of  the  International  Cloth 
Mills,  had  given  to  Banneker  a  reprint  of  an  address  by  himself, 
before  some  philosophical  and  inquiring  society,  wherein  he  had 
set  forth  some  of  his  simpler  economic  theories.  A  quotation, 
admirably  apropos  to  Banneker's  present  purposes,  flashed  forth 
clear  and  pregnant,  to  his  journalistic  memory.  From  the  Ledger 
" morgue"  he  selected  one  of  several  cuts  of  Mr.  Vanney,  and 
turned  it  in  to  the  night  desk  for  publication,  with  this  descrip 
tive  note : 

Horace  Vanney,  Chairman  of  the  Board  of  the  International  Cloth 
Company,  who  declares  that  if  working-women  are  paid  more  than  a 
bare  living  wage,  the  surplus  goes  into  finery  and  vanities  which  tempt 
them  to  ruin,  Mr,  Vanney's  mills  pay  girls  four  dollars  a  week, 


The  Vision  285 

Ravenously  hungry,  Banneker  went  out  to  order  a  long-de 
layed  dinner  at  Katie's.  Hardly  had  he  swallowed  his  first 
mouthful  of  soup,  when  an  office  boy  appeared. 

"Mr.  Gordon  wants  to  know  if  you  can  come  back  to  the 
office  at  once." 

On  the  theory  that  two  minutes,  while  important  to  his 
stomach,  would  not  greatly  matter  to  the  managing  editor, 
Banneker  consumed  the  rest  of  his  soup  and  returned.  He  found 
Mr.  Gordon  visibly  disturbed. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Banneker,"  he  said. 

Banneker  compiled. 

"We  can't  use  that  Sippiac  story." 

Banneker  sat  silent  and  attentive. 

"Why  did  you  write  it  that  way?" 

"I  wrote  it  as  I  got  it." 

"It  is  not  a  fair  story." 

"Every  fact — ' 

"It  is  a  most  unfair  story." 

"Do  you  know  Sippiac,  Mr.  Gordon?"  inquired  Banneker 
equably. 

"I  do  not.  Nor  can  I  believe  it  possible  that  you  could  acquire 
the  knowledge  of  it  implied  in  your  article,  in  a  few  hours." 

"I  spent  some  time  investigating  conditions  there  before  I 
came  on  the  paper." 

Mr.  Gordon  was  taken  aback.  Shifting  his  stylus  to  his  left 
hand,  he  assailed  severally  the  knuckles  of  his  right  therewith 
before  he  spoke.  "You  know  the  principles  of  The  Ledger,  Mr. 
Banneker." 

"To  get  the  facts  and  print  them,  so  I  have  understood." 

"These  are  not  facts."  The  managing  editor  rapped  sharply 
upon  the  proof.  "This  is  editorial  matter,  hardly  disguised." 

"Descriptive,  I  should  call  it,"  returned  the  writer  amiably. 

"Editorial.  You  have  pictured  Sippiac  as  a  hell  on  earth." 

"It  is." 

"  Sentimentalism ! "  snapped  the  other.  His  heavy  visage 
wore  a  disturbed  and  peevish  expression  that  rendered  it  quite 
plaintive.  "You  nave  been  with  us  long  enough,  Mr.  Banneker, 


286  Success 


to  know  that  we  do  not  cater  to  the  uplift-social  trade,  nor  are 
we  after  the  labor  vote." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  understand  that." 

"Yet  you  present  here,  what  is,  in  effect,  a  damning  indict 
ment  of  the  Sippiac  Mills." 

"The  facts  do  that ;  not  I." 

"But  you  have  selected  your  facts,  cleverly  —  oh,  very 
cleverly  —  to  produce  that  effect,  while  ignoring  facts  on  the 
other  side." 

"Such  as?" 

"Such  as  the  presence  and  influence  of  agitators.  The  evening 
editions  have  the  names,  and  some  of  the  speeches." 

"That  is  merely  clouding  the  main  issue.  Conditions  are  such 
there  that  no  outside  agitation  is  necessary  to  make  trouble." 

"But  the  agitators  are  there.  They're  an  element  and  you 
have  ignored  it.  Mr.  Banneker,  do  you  consider  that  you  are 
dealing  fairly  with  this  paper,  in  attempting  to  commit  it  to  an 
inflammatory,  pro-strike  course?" 

"Certainly,  if  the  facts  constitute  that  kind  of  an  argu 
ment." 

"What  of  that  picture  of  Horace  Vanney?  Is  that  news?" 

"Why  not?  It  goes  to  the  root  of  the  whole  trouble." 

"To  print  that  kind  of  stuff,"  said  Mr.  Gordon  forcibly, 
"would  make  The  Ledger  a  betrayer  of  its  own  cause.  What  you 
personally  believe  is  not  the  point." 

"I  believe  in  facts." 

"It  is  what  The  Ledger  believes  that  is  important  here.  You 
must  appreciate  that,  as  long  as  you  remain  on  the  staff,  your 
only  honorable  course  is  to  conform  to  the  standards  of  the  paper. 
When  you  write  an  article,  it  appears  to  our  public,  not  as  what 
Mr.  Banneker  says,  but  as  what  The  Ledger  says." 

"In  other  words,"  said  Banneker  thoughtfully,  "where  the 
facts  conflict  with  The  Ledger's  theories,  I'm  expected  to  adjust 
the  facts.  Is  that  it  ?  " 

"Certainly  not!  You  are  expected  to  present  the  news  fairly 
and  without  editorial  emphasis." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Gordon,  but  I  don't  believe  I  could  rewrite 


The  Vision  287 

that  story  so  as  to  give  a  favorable  slant  to  the  International's 
side.  Shooting  down  women  and  kids,  you  know  - 

Mr.  Gordon's  voice  was  crisp  as  he  cut  in.  "  There  is  no  ques 
tion  of  your  rewriting  it.  That  has  been  turned  over  to  a  man  we 
can  trust." 

"To  handle  facts  tactfully,"  put  in  Banneker  in  his  mildest 
voice. 

Considerably  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  a  smile  spread  over  Mr. 
Gordon's  face.  "  You're  an  obstinate  young  animal,  Banneker," 
he  said.  "Take  this  proof  home,  put  it  under  your  pillow  and 
dream  over  it.  Tell  me  a  week  from  now  what  you  think 
of  it." 

Banneker  rose.  "Then,  I'm  not  fired?"  he  said. 

"Not  by  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I'm  trusting  in  your  essential  honesty  to  bring  you 
around." 

"To  be  quite  frank,"  returned  Banneker  after  a  moment's 
thought,  "I'm  afraid  I've  got  to  be  convinced  of  The  Ledger's 
essential  honesty  to  come  around." 

"Go  home  and  think  it  over,"  suggested  the  managing  editor. 

To  his  associate,  Andreas,  he  said,  looking  at  Banneker's 
retreating  back:  "We're  going  to  lose  that  young  man,  Andy. 
And  we  can't  afford  to  lose  him." 

"What's  the  matter?  "  inquired  Andreas,  the  fanatical  devotee 
of  the  creed  of  news  for  news'  sake. 

"Quixotism.  Did  you  read  his  story?" 

"Yes." 

Mr.  Gordon  looked  up  from  his  inflamed  knuckles  for  an 
opinion. 

"A  great  job,"  pronounced  Andreas,  almost  reverently. 

"But  not  for  us." 

"No;  no.  Not  for  us." 

"It  wasn't  a  fair  story,"  alleged  the  managing  editor  with  a 
hint  of  the  defensive  in  his  voice. 

"Too  hot  for  that,"  the  assistant  supported  his  chief.  "And 
yet  perhaps — " 


288  Success 

"Perhaps  what?"  inquired  Mr.  Gordon  with  roving  and 
anxious  eye. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Andreas. 

As  well  as  if  he  had  finished,  Mr.  Gordon  supplied  the  conclu 
sion.  "  Perhaps  it  is  quite  as  fair  as  our  recast  article  will  be." 

It  was,  on  the  whole,  fairer. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SOUND  though  Mr.  Gordon's  suggestion  was,  Banneker  after 
the  interview  did  not  go  home  to  think  it  over.  He  went  to  a 
telephone  booth  and  called  up  the  Avon  Theater.  Was  the 
curtain  down?  It  was,  just.  Could  he  speak  to  Miss  Raleigh? 
The  affair  was  managed. 

"Hello,  Bettina." 

"Hello,  Ban." 

"How  nearly  dressed  are  you?" 

"Oh  —  half  an  hour  or  so." 

" Go  out  for  a  bite,  if  I  come  up  there?" 

The  telephone  receiver  gave  a  transferred  effect  of  conscien 
tious  consideration.  "  No:  I  don't  think  so.  I'm  tired.  This  is  my 
night  for  sleep." 

To  such  a  basis  had  the  two  young  people  come  in  the  course 
of  the  police  investigation  and  afterward,  that  an  agreement  had 
been  formulated  whereby  Banneker  was  privileged  to  call  up  the 
youthful  star  at  any  reasonable  hour  and  for  any  reasonable 
project,  which  she  might  accept  or  reject  without  the  burden  of 
excuse. 

"  Oh,  all  right ! "  returned  Banneker  amiably. 

The  receiver  produced,  in  some  occult  manner,  the  manner  of 
not  being  precisely  pleased  with  this.  "You  don't  seem  much 
disappointed,"  it  said. 

"I'm  stricken  but  philosophical.  Don't  you  see  me,  pierced 
to  the  heart,  but— " 

"Ban,"  interrupted  the  instrument:  "you're  flippant.  Have 
you  been  drinking?" 

"No.  Nor  eating  either,  now  that  you  remind  me." 

"Has  something  happened?" 

"Something  is  always  happening  in  this  restless  world." 

"It  has.  And  you  want  to  tell  me  about  it." 

"  No.  I  just  want  to  forget  it,  in  your  company." 

"Is  it  a  decent  night  out?" 


290  Success 

"Most  respectable." 

"Then  you  may  come  and  walk  me  home.  I  think  the  air  will 
do  me  good." 

"It's  very  light  diet,  though,"  observed  Banneker. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  responded  the  telephone  in  tones  of  patient 
resignation.  "  I'll  watch  you  eat.  Good-bye." 

Seated  at  a  quiet  table  in  the  restaurant,  Betty  Raleigh  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  turning  expectant  eyes  upon  her  companion. 

"Now  tell  your  aged  maiden  auntie  all  about  it." 

"Did  I  say  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  it?" 

"You  said  you  weren't.  Therefore  I  wish  to  know." 

"I  think  I'm  fired." 

"Fired?  From  The  Ledger?  Do  you  care?" 

"For  the  loss  of  the  job?  Not  a  hoot.  Otherwise  I  wouldn't 
be  going  to  fire  myself." 

"Oh:  that's  it,  is  it?" 

"  Yes.  You  see,  it's  a  question  of  my  doing  my  work  my  way  or 
The  Ledger's  way.  I  prefer  my  way." 

"And  The  Ledger  prefers  its  way,  I  suppose.  That's  because 
what  you  call  your  work,  The  Ledger  considers  its  work." 

"  In  other  words,  as  a  working  entity,  I  belong  to  The  Ledger." 

"Well,  don't  you?" 

"  It  isn't  a  flattering  thought.  And  if  the  paper  wants  me  to 
falsify  or  suppress  or  distort,  I  have  to  do  it.  Is  that  the  idea?" 

"Unless  you're  big  enough  not  to." 

"Being  big  enough  means  getting  out,  doesn't  it?" 

"Or  making  yourself  so  indispensable  that  you  can  do  things 
your  own  way." 

"You're  a  wise  child,  Betty,"  said  he.  "What  do  you  really 
think  of  the  newspaper  business?" 

"It's  a  rotten  business." 

"That's  frank,  anyway." 

"Now  I've  hurt  your  feelings.  Haven't  I?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Roused  my  curiosity:  that's  all.  Why  do  you 
think  it  a  rotten  business?" 

"It's  so  —  so  mean.  It's  petty." 

"As  for  example?"  he  pressed. 


The  Vision  291 

"See  what  Gurney  did  to  me  —  to  the  play,"  she  replied 
naively.  "  Just  to  be  smart." 

"Whew!  Talk  about  the  feminine  propensity  for  proving  a 
generalization  by  a  specific  instance !  Gurney  is  an  old  man 
reared  in  an  old  tradition.  He  isn't  metropolitan  journalism." 

"He's  dramatic  criticism,"  she  retorted. 

"No.  Only  one  phase  of  it." 

"Anyway,  a  successful  phase." 

"He  wants  to  produce  his  little  sensation,"  ruminated  Banne- 
ker,  recalling  Edmonds's  bitter  diagnosis.  "He  does  it  by  being 
clever.  There  are  worse  ways,  I  suppose." 

"He'd  always  rather  say  a  clever  thing  than  a  true  one." 

Banneker  gave  her  a  quick  look.  "Is  that  the  disease  from 
which  the  newspaper  business  is  suffering?" 

"I  suppose  so.  Anyway,  it's  no  good  for  you,  Ban,  if  it  won't 
let  you  be  yourself.  And  write  as  you  think.  This  isn't  new  to 
me.  I've  known  newspaper  men  before,  a  lot  of  them,  and  all 
kinds." 

"Weren't  any  of  them  honest?" 

"Lots.  But  very  few  of  them  independent.  They  can't  be. 
Not  even  the  owners,  though  they  think  they  are." 

"I'd  like  to  try  that." 

"You'd  only  have  a  hundred  thousand  bosses  instead  of  one," 
said  she  wisely. 

"You're  talking  about  the  public.  They're  your  bosses,  too, 
aren't  they?" 

"Oh,  I'm  only  a  woman.  It  doesn't  matter.  Besides,  they're 
not.  I  lead  'em  by  the  ear  —  the  big,  red,  floppy  ear.  Poor 
dears !  They  think  I  love  'em  all." 

"  Whereas  what  you  really  love  is  the  power  within  yourself  to 
please  them.  You  call  it  art,  I  suppose." 

"Ban!  What  a  repulsive  way  to  put  it.  You're  revenging 
yourself  for  what  I  said  about  the  newspapers." 

"Not  exactly.  I'm  drawing  the  deadly  parallel." 

She  drew  down  her  pretty  brows  in  thought.  "I  see.  But,  at 
worst,  I'm  interpreting  in  my  own  way.  Not  somebody  else's/1 

"Not  your  author's?" 


292  Success 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  returned  mutinously.  "  I  know  how  to  put 
a  line  over  better  than  he  possibly  could.  That's  my  business." 

"I'd  hate  to  write  a  play  for  you,  Bettina." 

"Try  it,"  she  challenged.  "But  don't  try  to  teach  me  how  to 
play  it  after  it's  written." 

"  I  begin  to  see  the  effect  of  the  bill-board's  printing  the  star's 
name  in  letters  two  feet  high  and  the  playwright's  in  one-inch 
type." 

"The  newspapers  don't  print  yours  at  all,  do  they?  Unless 
you  shoot  some  one,"  she  added  maliciously. 

"True  enough.  But  I  don't  think  I'd  shine  as  a  playwright." 

"What  will  you  do,  then,  if  you  fire  yourself?" 

"Fiction,  perhaps.  It's  slow  but  glorious,  I  understand. 
When  I'm  starving  in  a  garret,  awaiting  fame  with  the  pious  and 
cocksure  confidence  of  genius,  will  you  guarantee  to  invite  me  to 
a  square  meal  once  a  fortnight  ?  Think  what  it  would  give  me  to 
look  forward  to!" 

She  was  looking  him  in  the  face  with  an  expression  of  frank 
curiosity.  "Ban,  does  money  never  trouble  you?" 

"Not  very  much,"  he  confessed.  "It  comes  somehow  and 
goes  every  way." 

"You  give  the  effect  of  spending  it  with  graceful  ease.  Have 
you  got  much?" 

"A  little  dribble  of  an  income  of  my  own.  I  make,  I  suppose, 
about  a  quarter  of  what  your  salary  is." 

"One  doesn't  readily  imagine  you  ever  being  scrimped.  You 
give  the  effect  of  pros  —  no,  not  of  prosperity;  of  —  well  — 
absolute  ease.  It's  quite  different." 

"Much  nicer." 

"Do  you  know  what  they  call  you,  around  town?" 

"Didn't  know  I  had  attained  the  pinnacle  of  being  called  any 
thing,  around  town." 

"They  call  you  the  best-dressed  first-nighter  in  New  York." 

"Oh,  damn !"  said  Banneker  fervently. 

"That's  fame,  though.  I  know  plenty  of  men  who  would  give 
half  of  their  remaining  hairs  for  it." 

"I  don't  need  the  hairs,  but  they  can  have  it." 


The  Vision  293 


"Then,  too,  you  know,  I'm  an  asset." 

"An  asset?" 

"  Yes.  To  you,  I  mean."  She  pursed  her  fingers  upon  the  tip  of 
her  firm  little  chin  and  leaned  forward.  "Our  being  seen  so  much 
together.  Of  course,  that's  a  brashly  shameless  thing  to  say. 
But  I  never  have  to  wear  a  mask  for  you.  In  that  way  you're  a 
comfortable  person." 

"You  do  have  to  furnish  a  diagram,  though." 

"Yes?  You're  not  usually  stupid.  Whether  you  try  for  it  or 
not  —  and  I  think  there's  a  dash  of  the  theatrical  in  your  make 
up  —  you're  a  picturesque  sort  of  animal.  And  I  —  well,  I  help 
out  the  picture ;  make  you  the  more  conspicuous.  It  isn't  your 
good  looks  alone  —  you're  handsome  as  the  devil,  you  know, 
Ban,"  she  twinkled  at  him  —  "nor  the  super-tailored  effect 
which  you  pretend  to  despise,  nor  your  fame  as  a  gun-man, 
though  that  helps  a  lot. . .  .  I'll  give  you  a  bit  of  tea-talk :  two 
flappers  at  The  Plaza.  'Who's  that  wonderful-looking  man  over 
by  the  palm?'  —  'Don't  you  know  him?  Why,  that's  Mr.  Ban- 
neker.'  —  *  Who's  he ;  and  what  does  he  do  ?  Have  I  seen  him  on 
the  stage  ? '  — '  No>  indeed !  I  don't  know  what  he  does ;  but  he's 
an  ex-ranchman  and  he  held  off  a  gang  of  river-pirates  on  a 
yacht,  all  alone,  and  killed  eight  or  ten  of  them.  Doesn't  he  look 
it!'" 

"  I  don't  go  to  afternoon  teas,"  said  the  subject  of  this  sprightly 
sketch,  sulkily. 

"You  will!  If  you  don't  look  out.  Now  the  same  scene  several 
years  hence.  Same  flapper,  answering  same  question:  'Who's 
Banneker?  Oh,  a  reporter  or  something,  on  one  of  the  papers.* 
Et  wila  tout!  " 

"Suppose  you  were  with  me  at  the  Plaza,  as  an  asset,  several 
years  hence?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  —  several  years  hence." 

Banneker  smiled  radiantly.  "Which  I  am  to  take  as  fair 
warning  that,  unless  I  rise  above  my  present  lowly  estate,  that 
waxing  young  star,  Miss  Raleigh,  will  no  longer  — " 

"Ban!  What  right  have  you  to  think  me  a  wretched  little 
snob?" 


294  Success 

"  None  in  the  world.  It's  I  that  am  the  snob,  for  even  thinking 
about  it.  Just  the  same,  what  you  said  about '  only  a  reporter  or 
something'  struck  in." 

"But  in  a  few  years  from  now  you  won't  be  a  reporter." 

"  Shall  I  still  be  privileged  to  invite  Miss  Raleigh  to  supper  — 
or  was  it  tea?" 

"You're  still  angry.  That  isn't  fair  of  you  when  I'm  being  so 
frank.  I'm  going  to  be  even  franker.  I'm  feeling  that  way  to 
night.  Comes  of  being  tired,  I  suppose.  Relaxing  of  the  what- 
you-callems  of  inhibition.  Do  you  know  there's  a  lot  of  gossip 
about  us,  back  of  stage?" 

"Is  there?  Do  you  mind  it?" 

"No.  It  doesn't  matter.  They  think  I'm  crazy  about  you." 
Her  clear,  steady  eyes  did  not  change  expression  or  direction. 

"You're  not;  are  you?" 

"No ;  I'm  not.  That's  the  strange  part  of  it." 

"Thanks  for  the  flattering  implication.  But  you  couldn't  take 
any  serious  interest  in  a  mere  reporter,  could  you?"  he  said 
wickedly. 

This  time  Betty  laughed.  "  Couldn't  I !  I  could  take  serious 
interest  in  a  tumblebug,  at  times.  Other  times  I  wouldn't  care 
if  the  whole  race  of  men  were  extinct  —  and  that's  most  times. 
I  feel  your  charm.  And  I  like  to  be  with  you.  You  rest  me. 
You're  an  asset,  too,  in  a  way,  Ban ;  because  you're  never  seen 
with  any  woman.  You're  supposed  not  to  care  for  them. . . . 
You've  never  tried  to  make  love  to  me  even  the  least  little  bit, 
Ban.  I  wonder  why." 

"That  sounds  like  an  invitation,  but  — 

"But  you  know  it  isn't.  That's  the  delightful  part  of  you; 
you  do  know  things  like  that." 

"Also  I  know  better  than  to  risk  my  peace  of  mind." 

"Don't  lie  to  me,  my  dear,"  she  said  softly.  "There's  some 
one  else." 

He  made  no  reply. 

"You  see;  you  don't  deny  it."  Had  he  denied  it,  she  would 
have  said :  "Of  course  you'd  deny  it !"  the  methods  of  feminine 
detective  logic  being  so  devised. 


The  Vision  295 

"No;  I  don't  deny  it." 

"But  you  don't  want  to  talk  about  her." 

"No." 

"It's  as  bad  as  that?"  she  commiserated  gently.  "Poor  Ban ! 
But  you're  young.  You'll  get  over  it."  Her  brooding  eyes  sud 
denly  widened.  "Or  perhaps  you  won't,"  she  amended  with 
deeper  perceptiveness.  "Have  you  been  trying  me  as  an  ano 
dyne?"  she  demanded  sternly. 

Banneker  had  the  grace  to  blush.  Instantly  she  rippled  into 
laughter. 

"I've  never  seen  you  at  a  loss  before.  You  look  as  sheepish  as 
a  stage-door  Johnnie  when  his  inamorata  gets  into  the  other 
fellow's  car.  Ban,  you  never  hung  about  stage-doors,  did  you? 
I  think  it  would  be  good  for  you ;  tame  your  proud  spirit  and  all 
that.  Why  don't  you  write  one  of  your  'Eban'  sketches  on  John 
H.  Stage-Door?" 

"I'll  do  better  than  that.  Give  me  of  your  wisdom  on  the 
subject  and  I'll  write  an  interview  with  you  for  Tittle-Tattle. " 

"Do!  And  make  me  awfully  clever,  please.  Our  press-agent 
hasn't  put  anything  over  for  weeks.  He's  got  a  starving  wife  and 
seven  drunken  children,  or  something  like  that,  and,  as  he'll  take 
all  the  credit  for  the  interview  and  even  claim  that  he  wrote  it 
unless  you  sign  it,  perhaps  it'll  get  him  a  raise  and  he  can  then 
buy  the  girl  who  plays  the  manicure  part  a  bunch  of  orchids. 
He'd  have  been  a  stage-door  Johnnie  if  he  hadn't  stubbed  his  toe 
and  become  a  press-agent." 

"  All  right,"  said  Banneker.  "Now :  I'll  ask  the  stupid  questions 
and  you  give  the  cutie  answers." 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  Miss  Betty  Raleigh,  having  seen  the 
gist  of  all  her  witty  and  profound  observations  upon  a  strange 
species  embodied  in  three  or  four  scrawled  notes  on  the  back  of 
a  menu,  rose  and  observed  that,  whereas  acting  was  her  favorite 
pastime,  her  real  and  serious  business  was  sleep.  At  her  door  she 
held  her  face  up  to  him  as  straightforwardly  as  a  child.  "Good 
luck  to  you,  dear  boy,"  she  said  softly.  "  If  I  ever  were  a  fortune 
teller,  I  would  say  that  your  star  was  for  happiness  and  sue- 


296  Success 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  cheek  lightly.  "I'll  have  my  try  at 
success,"  he  said.  "But  the  other  isn't  so  easy." 

"You'll  find  them  one  and  the  same,"  was  her  parting 
prophecy. 

Inured  to  work  at  all  hours,  Banneker  went  to  the  small,  bare 
room  in  his  apartment  which  he  kept  as  a  study,  and  sat  down  to 
write  the  interview.  Angles  of  dawn-light  had  begun  to  irradiate 
the  steep  canyon  of  the  street  by  the  time  he  had  finished.  He 
read  it  over  and  found  it  good,  for  its  purposes.  Every  line  of  it 
sparkled.  It  bad  the  effervescent  quality  which  the  reading  pub 
lic  loves  to  associate  with  stage  life  and  stage  people.  Beyond 
that,  nothing.  Banneker  mailed  it  to  Miss  Westlake  for  typing, 
had  a  bath,  and  went  to  bed.  At  noon  he  was  at  The  Ledger 
office,  fresh,  alert,  and  dispassionately  curious  to  ascertain  the 
next  resolution  of  the  mix-up  between  the  paper  and  himself. 

Nothing  happened;  at  least,  nothing  indicative.  Mr.  Green- 
ough's  expression  was  as  flat  and  neutral  as  the  desk  over  which 
he  presided  as  he  called  Banneker's  name  and  said  to  him : 

"Mr.  Horace  Vanney  wishes  to  relieve  his  soul  of  some  price 
less  information.  Will  you  call  at  his  office  at  two-thirty?" 

It  was  Mr.  Vanney's  practice,  whenever  any  of  his  enterprises 
appeared  in  a  dubious  or  unfavorable  aspect,  immediately  to 
materialize  in  print  on  some  subject  entirely  unrelated,  prefer 
ably  an  announcement  on  behalf  of  one  of  the  charitable  or  civic 
organizations  which  he  officially  headed.  Thus  he  shone  forth  as 
a  useful,  serviceable,  and  public-spirited  citizen,  against  whom 
(such  was  the  inference  which  the  newspaper  reader  was  expected 
to  draw)  only  malignancy  could  allege  anything  injurious.  In  this 
instance  his  offering  upon  the  altar  of  publicity,  carefully  typed 
and  mimeographed,  had  just  enough  importance  to  entitle  it  to  a 
paragraph  of  courtesy.  After  it  was  given  out  to  those  who  called, 
Mr.  Vanney  detained  Banneker. 

"Have  you  read  the  morning  papers,  Mr.  Banneker?" 

"Yes.  That's  my  business,  Mr.  Vanney." 

"Then  you  can  see,  by  the  outbreak  in  Sippiac,  to  what  disas 
trous  results  anarchism  and  fomented  discontent  lead." 

"Depends  on  the  point  of  view.  I  believe  that,  after  my  visit 


The  Vision  297 

to  the  mills  for  you,  I  told  you  that  unless  conditions  were  bet 
tered  you'd  have  another  and  worse  strike.  You've  got  it." 

"  Fortunately  it  is  under  control.  The  trouble-makers  and 
thugs  have  been  taught  a  needed  lesson." 

"  Especially  the  six-year-old  trouble-making  thug  who  was 
shot  through  the  lungs  from  behind." 

Mr.  Vanney  scowled.  "  Unfortunate.  And  the  papers  laid 
unnecessary  stress  upon  that.  Wholly  unnecessary.  Most  un 
fair." 

"You  would  hardly  accuse  The  Ledger,  at  least,  of  being  unfair 
to  the  mill  interests." 

"Yes.  The  Ledger's  handling,  while  less  objectionable  than 
some  of  the  others,  was  decidedly  unfortunate." 

Banneker  gazed  at  him  in  stupefaction.  "Mr.  Vanney,  The 
Ledger  minimized  every  detail  unfavorable  to  the  mills  and 
magnified  every  one  which  told  against  the  strikers.  It  was  only 
its  skill  that  concealed  the  bias  in  every  paragraph." 

"You  are  not  over-loyal  to  your  employer,  sir,"  commented 
the  other  severely. 

"At  least  I'm  defending  the  paper  against  your  aspersions," 
returned  Banneker. 

"Most  unfair,"  pursued  Mr.  Vanney.  "Why  publish  such 
matter  at  all?  It  merely  stirs  up  more  discontent  and  excites 
hostility  against  the  whole  industrial  system  which  has  made 
this  country  great.  And  I  give  more  copy  to  the  newspaper  men 
than  any  other  public  man  in  New  York.  It's  rank  ingratitude, 
that's  what  it  is."  He  meditated  upon  the  injurious  matter. 
"I  suppose  we  ought  to  have  advertised,"  he  added  pensively. 
"Then  they'd  let  us  alone  as  they  do  the  big  stores." 

Banneker  left  the  Vanney  offices  with  a  great  truth  illuminat 
ing  his  brain ;  to  wit,  that  news,  whether  presented  ingenuously 
or  disingenuously,  will  always  and  inevitably  be  unpopular  with 
those  most  nearly  affected.  For  while  we  all  read  avidly  what  we 
can  find  about  the  other  man's  sins  and  errors,  we  all  hope,  for 
our  own,  the  kindly  mantle  of  silence.  And  because  news  always 
must  and  will  stir  hostility,  the  attitude  of  a  public,  any  part  of 
which  may  be  its  next  innocent  (or  guilty)  victim,  is  instinctively 


298  Success 


inimical.  Another  angle  of  the  pariahdom  of  those  who  deal  in 
day-to-day  history,  for  Banneker  to  ponder. 

Feeling  a  strong  desire  to  get  away  from  the  troublous  environ 
ment  of  print,  Banneker  was  glad  to  avail  himself  of  Densmore's 
invitation  to  come  to  The  Retreat  on  the  following  Monday  and 
try  his  hand  at  polo  again.  This  time  he  played  much  better, 
his  mallet  work  in  particular  being  more  reliable. 

"You  ride  like  an  Indian,"  said  Densmore  to  him  after  the 
scratch  game,  "and  you've  got  no  nerves.  But  I  don't  see 
where  you  got  your  wrist,  except  by  practice." 

"I've  had  the  practice,  some  time  since." 

"But  if  you've  only  knocked  about  the  field  with  stable- 
boys—" 

"That's  the  only  play  I've  ever  had.  But  when  I  was  riding 
range  in  the  desert,  I  picked  up  an  old  stick  and  a  ball  of  the 
owner's,  and  I've  chased  that  ball  over  more  miles  of  sand  and 
rubble  than  you'd  care  to  walk.  Cactus  plants  make  very  fair 
goal  posts,  too ;  but  the  sand  is  tricky  going  for  the  ball." 

Densmore  whistled.  "That  explains  it.  Maitland  says  you'll 
make  the  club  team  in  two  years.  Let  us  get  together  and  fix 
you  up  some  ponies,"  invited  Densmore. 

Banneker  shook  his  head,  but  wistfully. 

"Until  you're  making  enough  to  carry  your  own." 

"That  might  be  ten  years,  in  the  newspaper  business.  Or 
never." 

"Then  get  out  of  it.  Let  Old  Man  Masters  find  you  something 
in  the  Street.  You  could  get  away  with  it,"  persuaded  Dens 
more.  "And  he'll  do  anything  for  a  polo-man." 

"No,  thank  you.  No  paid-athlete  job  for  mine.  I'd  rather 
stay  a  reporter." 

"Come  into  the  club,  anyway.  You  can  afford  that.  And  at 
least  you  can  take  a  mount  on  your  day  off." 

"I'm  thinking  of  another  job  where  I'll  have  more  time  to 
myself  than  one  day  a  week,"  confessed  Banneker,  having  in 
mind  possible  magazine  work.  He  thought  of  the  pleasant  re 
moteness  of  The  Retreat.  It  was  expensive ;  it  would  in  volve 
frequent  taxi  charges.  But,  as  ever,  Banneker  had  an  unreason- 


The  Vision  299 

ing  faith  in  a  financial  providence  of  supply.  "  Yes :  I'll  come  in," 
he  said.  "That  is,  if  I  can  get  in." 

"You'll  get  in,  with  Poultney  Masters  for  a  backer.  Other 
wise,  I'll  tell  you  frankly,  I  think  your  business  would  keep  you 
out,  in  spite  of  your  polo." 

"Densmore,  there's  something  I've  been  wanting  to  put  up  to 
you." 

Densmore's  heavy  brows  came  to  attention.  "Fire  ahead." 

"You  were  ready  to  beat  me  up  when  I  came  here  to  ask  you 
certain  questions." 

"I  was.  Any  fellow  would  be.  You  would." 

"Perhaps.  But  suppose,  through  the  work  of  some  other  re 
porter,  a  divorce  story  involving  the  sister  and  brother-in-law  of 
some  chap  in  your  set  had  appeared  in  the  papers." 

"No  concern  of  mine." 

"But  you'd  read  it,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Probably." 

"And  if  your  paper  didn't  have  it  in  and  another  paper  did, 
you'd  buy  the  other  paper  to  find  out  about  it." 

"If  I  was  interested  in  the  people,  I  might." 

"Then  what  kind  of  a  sport  are  you,  when  you're  keen  to  read 
about  other  people's  scandals,  but  sore  on  any  one  who  inquires 
about  yours  ?  " 

"That's  the  other  fellow's  bad  luck.  If  he  — " 

'You  don't  get  my  point.  A  newspaper  is  simply  a  news  ex 
change.  If  you're  ready  to  read  about  the  affairs  of  others,  you 
should  not  resent  the  activity  of  the  newspaper  that  attempts  to 
present  yours.  I'm  merely  advancing  a  theory." 

"Damned  ingenious,"  admitted  the  polo-player.  "Make  a 
reporter  a  sort  of  public  agent,  eh  ?  Only,  you  see,  he  isn't.  He 
hasn't  any  right  to  my  private  affairs." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  take  advantage  of  his  efforts,  as  you  do 
when  you  read  about  your  friends." 

"Oh,  that's  too  fine-spun  tor  me.  Now,  I'll  tell  you;  just  be 
cause  I  take  a  drink  at  a  bar  I  don't  make  a  pal  of  the  bartender. 
It  comes  to  about  the  same  thing,  I  fancy.  You're  trying  to 
justify  your  profession.  Let  me  ask  you ;  do  you  feel  that  you're 


300  Success 

within  your  decent  rights  when  you  come  to  a  stranger  with  such 
a  question  as  you  put  up  to  me?" 

"No ;  I  don't,"  replied  Banneker  ruefully.  "I  feel  like  a  man 
trying  to  hold  up  a  bigger  man  with  a  toy  pistol." 

"Then  you'd  better  get  into  some  other  line." 

But  whatever  hopes  Banneker  may  have  had  of  the  magazine 
line  suffered  a  set-back  when,  a  few  days  later,  he  called  upon  the 
Great  Gaines  at  his  office,  and  was  greeted  with  a  cheery  though 
quizzical  smile. 

"Yes ;  I've  read  it,"  said  the  editor  at  once,  not  waiting  for  the 
question.  "It's  clever.  It's  amazingly  clever." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  replied  Banneker,  pleased  but  not  sur 
prised. 

Mr.  Gaines's  expression  became  one  of  limpid  innocence. 
"Like  it?  Did  I  say  I  liked  it?" 

"No ;  you  didn't  say  so." 

"  No.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  don't  like  it.  Dear  me,  no !  Not  at 
all.  Where  did  you  get  the  idea?"  asked  Mr.  Gaines  abruptly. 

"The  plot?"' 

"No;  no.  Not  the  plot.  The  plot  is  nothing.  The  idea  of 
choosing  such  an  environment  and  doing  the  story  in  that  way." 

"From  The  New  Era  Magazine." 

"I  begin  to  see.  You  have  been  studying  the  magazine." 

"Yes.  Since  I  first  had  the  idea  of  trying  to  write  for  it." 

"Flattered,  indeed!"  said  Mr.  Gaines  dryly.  "And  you 
modeled  yourself  upon  —  what  ?  " 

"I  wrote  the  type  of  story  which  the  magazine  runs  to." 

"Pardon  me.  You  did  not.  You  wrote,  if  you  will  forgive  me, 
an  imitation  of  that  type.  Your  story  has  everything  that  we 
strive  for  except  reality." 

"You  believe  that  I  have  deliberately  copied  — " 

"A  type,  not  a  story.  No;  you  are  not  a  plagiarist,  Mr. 
Banneker.  But  you  are  very  thoroughly  a  journalist." 

"Coming  from  you  that  can  hardly  be  accounted  a  compli 
ment." 

"Nor  is  it  so  intended.  But  I  don't  wish  you  to  misconstrue 
me.  You  are  not  a  journalist  in  your  style  and  method ;  it  goes 


The  Vision  301 

deeper  than  that.  You  are  a  journalist  in  your  —  well,  in  your 
approach.  'What  the  public  wants.'" 

Inwardly  Banneker  was  raging.  The  incisive  perception  stung. 
But  he  spoke  lightly.  "Doesn't  The  New  Era  want  what  its 
public  wants?" 

"My  dear  sir,  in  the  words  of  a  man  who  ought  to  have  been 
an  editor  of  to-day,  'The  public  be  damned !'  What  I  looked  to 
you  for  was  not  your  idea  of  what  somebody  else  wanted  you  to 
write,  but  your  expression  of  what  you  yourself  want  to  write. 
About  hoboes.  About  railroad  wrecks.  About  cowmen  or  ped 
dlers  or  waterside  toughs  or  stage-door  Johnnies,  or  ward  politi 
cians,  or  school-teachers,  or  life.  Not  pink  teas." 

"I  have  read  pink-tea  stories  in  your  magazine." 

"Of  course  you  have.  Written  by  people  who  could  see 
through  the  pink  to  the  primary  colors  underneath.  When  you 
go  to  a  pink  tea,  you  are  pink.  Did  you  ever  go  to  one? " 

Still  thoroughly  angry,  Banneker  nevertheless  laughed. 
"Then  the  story  is  no  use?" 

"Not  to  us,  certainly.  Miss  Thornborough  almost  wept  over 
it.  She  said  that  you  would  undoubtedly  sell  it  to  The  Bon 
Vivant  and  be  damned  forever." 

"Thank  her  on  my  behalf,"  returned  the  other  gravely.  "If 
The  Bon  Vivant  wants  it  and  will  pay  for  it,  I  shall  certainly  sell 
it  to  them." 

"Out  of  pique?. .  .Hold  hard,  young  sir!  You  can't  shoot  an 
editor  in  his  sanctum  because  of  an  ill-advised  but  natural 
question." 

"True  enough.  Nor  do  I  want  —  well,  yes;  I  would  rather 
like  to." 

"Good!  That's  natural  and  genuine." 

"What  do  you  think  The  Bon  Vivant  would  pay  for  that 
story?"  inquired  Banneker. 

"Perhaps  a  hundred  dollars.  Cheap,  for  a  career,  isn't  it !" 

"Isn't  the  assumption  that  there  is  but  one  pathway  to  the 
True  Art  and  but  one  signboard  pointing  to  it  a  little  excessive?" 

"Abominably.  There  are  a  thousand  pathways,  broad  and 
narrow,  They  all  go  uphill,  , , .  Some  day  when  you  spin  some- 


302  Success 

thing  out  of  your  own  inside,  Mr.  Banneker,  forgive  the  well- 
meaning  editor  and  let  us  see  it.  It  might  be  pure  silk." 

All  the  way  downtown,  Banneker  cursed  inwardly  but  bril 
liantly.  This  was  his  first  set-back.  Everything  prior  which  he 
had  attempted  had  been  successful.  Inevitably  the  hard,  firm 
texture  of  his  inner  endurance  had  softened  under  the  spoiled- 
child  treatment  which  the  world  had  readily  accorded  him. 
Even  while  he  recognized  this,  he  sulked. 

To  some  extent  he  was  cheered  up  by  a  letter  from  the  editor 
of  that  lively  and  not  too  finicky  publication,  Tittle-Tattle.  The 
interview  with  Miss  Raleigh  was  acclaimed  with  almost  raptur 
ous  delight.  It  was  precisely  the  sort  of  thing  wanted.  Proof  had 
already  been  sent  to  Miss  Raleigh,  who  was  equally  pleased. 
Would  Mr.  Banneker  kindly  read  and  revise  enclosed  proof  and 
return  it  as  soon  as  possible  ?  Mr.  Banneker  did  better  than  that. 
He  took  back  the  corrected  proof  in  person.  The  editor  was  most 
cordial,  until  Banneker  inquired  what  price  was  to  be  paid  for 
the  interview.  Then  the  editor  was  surprised  and  grieved.  It 
appeared  that  he  had  not  expected  to  pay  anything  for  it. 

"Do  you  expect  to  get  copy  for  nothing?"  inquired  the  aston 
ished  and  annoyed  Banneker. 

"If  it  conies  to  that,"  retorted  the  sharp-featured  youn?  man 
at  the  editorial  desk,  "you're  the  one  that's  getting  something  for 
nothing." 

"I  don't  follow  you." 

"Come  off!  This  is  red-hot  advertising  matter  for  Betty 
Raleigh,  and  you  know  it.  Why,  I  ought  to  charge  a  coupla 
hundred  for  running  it  at  all.  But  you  being  a  newspaper  man 
and  the  stuff  being  so  snappy,  I'm  willing  to  make  an  exception. 
Besides,  you're  a  friend  of  Raleigh's,  ain't  you?  Well — 'miff 
said!" 

It  was  upon  the  tip  of  Banneker's  tongue  to  demand  the  copy 
back.  Then  he  bethought  himself  of  Betty's  disappointment. 
The  thing  was  well  done.  If  he  had  been  a  thousand  miles  short 
of  giving  even  a  hint  of  the  real  Betty  —  who  was  a  good  deal 
of  a  person  —  at  least  he  had  embodied  much  of  the  light  and 


The  Vision  303 

frivolous  charm  which  was  her  stage  stock-in-trade,  and  what  her 
public  wanted.  He  owed  her  that  much,  anyhow. 

"All  right,"  he  said  shortly. 

He  left,  and  on  the  street-car  immersed  himself  in  some  dis 
illusioning  calculations.  Suppose  he  did  sell  the  rejected  story  to 
The  Bon  Vivant.  One  hundred  dollars,  he  had  learned,  was  the 
standard  price  paid  by  that  frugal  magazine;  that  would  not 
recompense  him  for  the  time  bestowed  upon  it.  He  could  have 
made  more  by  writing  " specials"  for  the  Sunday  paper.  And  on 
top  of  that  to  find  that  a  really  brilliant  piece  of  interviewing  had 
brought  him  in  nothing  more  substantial  than  congratulations 
and  the  sense  of  a  good  turn  done  for  a  friend ! 

The  magazine  field,  he  began  to  suspect,  might  prove  to  be 
arid  land. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHAT  next?  Banneker  put  the  query  to  himself  with  more 
seriousness  than  he  had  hitherto  given  to  estimating  the  future. 
Money,  as  he  told  Betty  Raleigh,  had  never  concerned  him  much. 
His  start  at  fifteen  dollars  a  week  had  been  more  than  he  ex 
pected  ;  and  though  his  one  weekly  evening  of  mild  sybaritism 
ate  up  all  his  margin,  and  his  successful  sartorial  experiments 
consumed  his  private  surplus,  he  had  no  cause  for  worry,  since 
his  salary  had  been  shortly  increased  to  twenty,  and  even  more 
shortly  thereafter  to  twenty-five.  Now  it  was  a  poor  week  in 
which  he  did  not  exceed  the  hundred.  All  of  it  went,  rather  more 
fluently  than  had  the  original  fifteen.  Frugal  though  he  could 
be  in  normal  expenditures,  the  rental  of  his  little  but  fashionably 
situated  apartment,  his  new  club  expenses,  his  polo  outfit,  and 
his  occasional  associations  with  the  after-theater  clique,  which 
centered  at  The  Avon,  caused  the  debit  column  to  mount  with 
astonishing  facility.  Furthermore,  through  his  Western  associa 
tions  he  had  an  opportunity  to  pick  up  two  half-broken  polo 
ponies  at  bargain  prices.  He  had  practically  decided  to  buy  them. 
Their  keep  would  be  a  serious  item.  He  must  have  more  money. 
How  to  get  it  ?  Harder  work  was  the  obvious  answer.  Labor 
had  no  terrors  for  Banneker.  Mentally  he  was  a  hardened  ath 
lete,  always  in  training.  Being  wise  and  self-protective,  he  did 
no  writing  on  his  day  off.  But  except  for  this  period  of  complete 
relaxation,  he  gave  himself  no  respite.  Any  morning  which  did 
not  find  him  writing  in  his  den,  after  a  light,  working  breakfast, 
he  put  in  at  the  Library  near  by,  insatiably  reading  economics, 
sociology,  politics,  science,  the  more  serious  magazines,  and 
always  the  news  and  comments  of  the  day.  He  was  possessed  of 
an  assertive  and  sane  curiosity  to  know  what  was  going  on  in  the 
world,  an  exigence  which  pressed  upon  him  like  a  healthy  appe 
tite,  the  stimulus  of  his  hard-trained  mental  condition.  The 
satisfaction  of  this  demand  did  not  pay  an  immediate  return ; 
he  obtained  little  or  no  actual  material  to  be  transmuted  into 


The  Vision  305 

the  coin  of  so-much-per-column,  except  as  he  came  upon  sug 
gestions  for  editorial  use;  and,  since  his  earlier  experience  of 
The  Ledger's  editorial  method  with  contributions  (which  he 
considered  light-fingered),  he  had  forsworn  this  medium.  Not 
withstanding  this,  he  wrote  or  sketched  out  many  an  editorial 
which  would  have  astonished,  and  some  which  would  have 
benefited,  the  Inside  Room  where  the  presiding  genius,  malicious 
and  scholarly,  dipped  his  pen  alternately  into  luminous  ether 
and  undiluted  venom.  Some  day,  Banneker  was  sure,  he  him 
self  was  going  to  say  things  editorially. 

His  opinion  of  the  editorial  output  in  general  was  unflattering. 
It  seemed  to  him  bound  by  formalism  and  incredibly  blind  to  the 
immense  and  vivid  interest  of  the  news  whereby  it  was  sur 
rounded,  as  if  a  man,  set  down  in  a  meadow  full  of  deep  and  clear 
springs,  should  elect  to  drink  from  a  shallow,  torpid,  and  muddy 
trickle.  Legislation,  taxes,  transportation  problems,  the  Great 
ness  of  Our  City,  our  National  Duty  (whatever  it  might  be  at 
the  time  —  and  according  to  opinion),  the  drink  question,  the 
race  problem,  labor  and  capital;  these  were  the  reiterated 
topics,  dealt  with  informatively  often,  sometimes  wittily,  seldom 
impartially.  But,  at  best,  this  was  but  the  creaking  mechanism 
of  the  artificial  structure  of  society,  and  it  was  varied  only  by  an 
occasional  literary  or  artistic  sally,  or  a  preachment  in  the  terms 
of  a  convinced  moralization  upon  the  unvarying  text  that  the 
wages  of  sin  is  death.  Why  not  a  touch  of  humanism,  now  and 
again,  thought  Banneker,  following  the  inevitable  parallels  in 
paper  after  paper ;  a  ray  of  light  striking  through  into  the  life- 
texture  beneath? 

By  way  of  experiment  he  watched  the  tide  or  readers,  flowing 
through  the  newspaper  room  of  the  Public  Library,  to  ascertain 
what  they  read.  Not  one  in  thirty  paid  any  attention  to  the 
editorial  pages.  Essaying  farther  afield,  he  attended  church  on 
several  occasions.  His  suspicions  were  confirmed ;  from  the  pulpit 
he  heard,  addressed  to  scanty  congregations,  the  same  carefully 
phrased,  strictly  correct  comments,  now  dealing,  however,  with 
the  mechanism  of  another  world.  The  chief  point  of  difference 
was  that  the  newspaper  editorials  were,  on  the  whole,  more 


306  Success 

felicitously  worded  and  more  compactly  thought  out.  Essen 
tially,  however,  the  two  ran  parallel. 

Banneker  wondered  whether  the  editorial  rostrum,  too,  was 
fated  to  deliver  its  would-be  authoritative  message  to  an  audi 
ence  which  threatened  to  dwindle  to  the  vanishing  point.  Who 
read  those  carefully  wrought  columns  in  The  Ledger?  Pot 
bellied  chair-warmers  in  clubs;  hastening  business  men  appre 
ciative  of  the  daily  assurance  that  stability  is  the  primal  and 
final  blessing,  discontent  the  cardinal  sin,  the  extant  system  per 
fect  and  holy,  and  any  change  a  wile  of  the  forces  of  destruction 
—  as  if  the  human  race  had  evoluted  by  the  power  of  standing 
still !  For  the  man  in  the  street  they  held  no  message.  No ;  nor 
for  the  woman  in  the  home.  Banneker  thought  of  young  Smith 
of  the  yacht  and  the  coming  millions,  with  a  newspaper  waiting 
to  drop  into  his  hands.  He  wished  he  could  have  that  news 
paper  —  any  newspaper,  for  a  year.  He'd  make  the  man  in  the 
street  sit  up  and  read  his  editorials.  Yes,  and  the  woman  in  the 
home.  Why  not  the  boy  and  the  girl  in  school,  also  ?  Any  writer, 
really  master  of  his  pen,  ought  to  be  able  to  make  even  a  prob 
lem  in  algebra  editorially  interesting ! 

And  if  he  could  make  it  interesting,  he  could  make  it  pay. . . . 
But  how  was  he  to  profit  by  all  this  hard  work,  this  conscientious 
technical  training  to  which  he  was  devoting  himself?  True,  it 
was  improving  his  style.  But  for  the  purposes  of  Ledger  report 
ing,  he  wrote  quite  well  enough.  Betterment  here  might  be 
artistically  satisfactory ;  financially  it  would  be  fruitless.  Already 
his  space  bills  were  the  largest,  consistently,  on  the  staff,  due 
chiefly  to  his  indefatigable  industry  in  devoting  every  spare 
office  hour  to  writing  his  "Eban"  sketches,  now  paid  at  sixteen 
dollars  a  column,  and  Sunday  "specials."  He  might  push  this  up 
a  little,  but  not  much. 

From  the  magazine  field,  expectations  were  meager  in  the  im 
mediate  sense.  True,  The  Bon  Vivant  had  accepted  the  story 
which  The  Era  rejected ;  but  it  had  paid  only  seventy-five  dol 
lars.  Banneker  did  not  care  to  go  farther  on  that  path.  Aside 
from  the  unsatisfactory  return,  his  fastidiousness  revolted  from 
being  identified  with  the  output  of  a  third-class  and  flashy  publi- 


The  Vision  307 

cation.  Whatever  The  Ledger's  shortcomings,  it  at  least  stood 
first  in  its  field.  But  was  there  any  future  for  him  there,  other 
than  as  a  conspicuously  well-paid  reporter  ?  In  spite  of  the  criti 
cal  situation  which  his  story  of  the  Sippiac  riots  had  brought 
about,  he  knew  that  he  was  safe  as  long  as  he  wished  to  stay. 

"You're  too  valuable  to  lose,"  said  Tommy  Burt,  swinging  his 
pudgy  legs  over  Banneker's  desk,  having  finished  one  of  his 
mirthful  stories  of  a  row  between  a  wine  agent  and  a  theatrical 
manager  over  a  doubly  reserved  table  in  a  conspicuous  restau 
rant.  "Otherwise  —  phutt!  But  they'll  be  very  careful  what 
kind  of  assignments  they  hand  over  to  your  reckless  hands  in 
future.  You  mustn't  throw  expensive  and  brittle  conventions  at 
the  editor's  head.  They  smash." 

"And  the  fragments  come  back  and  cut.  I  know.  But  what 
does  it  all  lead  to,  Tommy?" 

"Depends  on  which  way  you're  going." 

"To  the  top,  naturally." 

"From  anybody  else  that  would  sound  blatant,  Ban,"  re 
turned  Tommy  admiringly.  "Somehow  you  get  away  with  it 
Are  you  as  sincere  as  you  act?" 

"In  so  far  as  my  intentions  go.  Of  course,  I  may  trip  up  and 
break  myself  in  two." 

"No.  You'll  always  fall  light.  There's  a  buoyancy  about 
you. . . .  But  what  about  coming  to  the  end  of  the  path  and  find 
ing  nowhere  else  to  proceed?" 

"Paragon  of  wisdom,  you  have  stated  the  situation.  Now 
produce  the  answer." 

"More  money?"  inquired  Tommy. 

"More  money.  More  opportunity." 

"Then  you've  got  to  aim  at  the  executive  end.  Begin  by  tak 
ing  a  copy-desk." 

"At  forty  a  week?" 

"It  isn't  so  long  ago  that  twenty-five  looked  pretty  big  to  you, 
Ban." 

"A  couple  of  centuries  ago,"  stated  Banneker  positively. 
"Forty  a  week  wouldn't  keep  me  alive  now." 

*'  You  could  write  a  lot  of  specials.  Or  do  outside  work." 


308  Success 


"Perhaps.  But  what  would  a  desk  lead  to? 

"  City  editor.  Night  city  editor.  Night  editor.  Managing  edi 
tor  at  fifteen  thou." 

"After  ten  years.  If  one  has  the  patience.  I  haven't.  Besides, 
what  chance  would  /  have  ? ' 

"None,  with  the  present  lot  in  the  Inside  Room.  You're  a 
heretic.  You're  unsound.  You've  got  dangerous  ideas  —  accent 
on  the  dangerous.  I  doubt  if  they'd  even  trust  you  with  a  blue 
pencil.  You  might  inject  something  radical  into  a  thirty-head." 

"Tommy,"  said  Banneker,  "I'm  still  new  at  this  game.  What 
becomes  of  star  reporters?" 

"Drink,"  replied  Tommy  brusquely. 

"Rats ! "  retorted  Banneker.  "That's  guff.  There  aren't  three 
heavy  drinkers  in  this  office." 

"A  lot  of  the  best  men  go  that  way,"  persisted  Burt.  "It's  the 
late  hours  and  the  irregular  life,  I  suppose.  Some  drift  out  into 
other  lines.  This  office  has  trained  a  lot  of  playwrights  and 
authors  and  ad-men." 

"But  some  must  stick." 

"They  play  out  early.  The  game  is  too  hard.  They  get  to 
be  hacks.  Or  permanent  desk-men.  D'you  know  Philander 
Akely?" 

"Who  is  he?" 

'Ask  me  who  he  was  and  I'll  tell  you.  He  was  the  brilliant 
youngster,  the  coruscating  firework,  the  —  the  Banneker  of  ten 
years  ago.  Come  into  the  den  and  meet  him." 

In  one  of  the  inner  rooms  Banneker  was  introduced  to  a 
fragile,  desiccated-looking  man  languidly  engaged  in  scissoring 
newspaper  after  newspaper  which  he  took  from  a  pile  and  cast 
upon  the  floor  after  operation.  The  clippings  he  filed  in  enve 
lopes.  A  checkerboard  lay  on  the  table  beside  him. 

"Do  you  play  draughts,  Mr.  Banneker?"  he  asked  in  a  rum 
bling  bass. 

"Very  little  and  very  poorly." 

The  other  sighed.  "It  is  pure  logic,  in  the  form  of  contest. 
Far  more  so  than  chess,  which  is  merely  sustained  effort  of  con 
centration.  Are  you  interested  in  emblemology  ?  " 


The  Vision  309 


"I'm  afraid  I  know  almost  nothing  of  it,"  confessed  Banneker. 

Akely  sighed  again,  gave  Banneker  a  glance  which  proclaimed 
an  utter  lack  of  interest,  and  plunged  his  shears  into  the  editorial 
vitals  of  the  Springfield  Republican.  Tommy  Burt  led  the  sur 
prised  Banneker  away. 

"  Dried  up,  played  out,  and  given  a  measly  thirty-five  a  week 
as  hopper-feeder  for  the  editorial  room,"  he  announced.  "And 
he  was  the  star  man  of  his  time." 

"That's  pretty  rotten  treatment  for  him,  then,"  said  Banne 
ker  indignantly. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  He  isn't  worth  what  he  gets.  Most  offices 
would  have  chucked  him  out  on  the  street." 

"What  was  his  trouble?" 

"Nothing  in  particular.  Just  wore  his  machine  out.  Every 
thing  going  out,  nothing  coming  in.  He  spun  out  enough  high- 
class  copy  to  keep  the  ordinary  reporter  going  for  a  life-time; 
but  he  spun  it  out  too  fast.  Nothing  left.  The  tragedy  of  it  is 
that  he's  quite  happy."  '• 

"Then  it  isn't  a  tragedy  at  all." 

"Depends  on  whether  you  take  the  Christian  or  the  Buddhist 
point  of  view.  He's  found  his  Nirvana  in  checker  problems  and 
collecting  literature  about  insignia.  Write  ?  I  don't  suppose  he'd 
want  to  if  he  could.  'There  but  for  the  grace  of  God  goes'  — 
you  or  I.  /  think  the  facilis  descensus  to  the  gutter  is  almost 
preferable." 

"  So  you've  shown  him  to  me  as  a  dreadful  warning,  have  you, 
Tommy?"  mused  Banneker  aloud. 

"  Get  out  of  it,  Ban ;  get  out  of  it." 

"  Why  don't  you  get  out  of  it  yourself  ?  " 

"Inertia.  Or  cowardice.  And  then,  I  haven't  come  to  the 
turning-point  yet.  When  I  do  reach  it,  perhaps  it'll  be  too  late." 

"What  do  you  reckon  the  turning-point?" 

"As  long  as  you  feel  the  excitement  of  the  game,"  explained 
this  veteran  of  thirty,  "you're  all  right.  That  will  keep  you 
going ;  the  sense  of  adventure,  of  change,  of  being  in  the  thick  of 
things.  But  there's  an  underlying  monotony,  so  they  tell  me: 
the  monotony  of  seeing  things  by  glimpses,  of  never  really  com- 


310  Success 

pleting  a  job,  of  being  inside  important  things,  but  never  of  them. 
That  gets  into  your  veins  like  a  clogging  poison.  Then  you're 
through.  Quit  it,  Ban,  before  it's  too  late." 

"No.  I'm  not  going  to  quit  the  game.  It's  my  game.  I'm 
going  to  beat  it." 

"  Maybe.  You've  got  the  brains.  But  I  think  you're  too  stiff 
in  the  backbone.  Go-to-hell-if-you-don't-like-the-way-I-do-it 
may  be  all  right  for  a  hundred-dollar-a-week  job ;  but  it  doesn't 
get  you  a  managing  editorship  at  fifteen  to  twenty  thousand. 
Even  if  it  did,  you'd  give  up  the  go-to-hell  attitude  as  soon  as  you 
landed,  for  fear  it  would  cost  you  your  job  and  be  too  dear  a 
luxury." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Walpole,"  laughed  Banneker.  "When  I  find 
what  my  price  is,  I'll  let  you  know.  Meantime  I'll  think  over 
your  well-meant  advice." 

If  the  normal  way  of  advancement  were  closed  to  him  in  The 
Ledger  office  because  of  his  unsound  and  rebellious  attitude  on 
social  and  labor  questions,  there  might  be  better  opportunities 
in  other  offices,  Banneker  reflected. 

Before  taking  any  step  he  decided  to  talk  over  the  general 
situation  with  that  experienced  campaigner,  Russell  Edmonds. 
Him  and  his  diminutive  pipe  he  found  at  Katie's,  after  most  of 
the  diners  had  left.  The  veteran  nodded  when  Banneker  told 
him  of  his  having  reached  what  appeared  to  be  a  cul-de-sac. 

"It's  about  time  you  quit,"  said  Edmonds  vigorously. 

"  You've  changed  your  mind  ?  " 

The  elder  nodded  between  two  spirals  of  smoke  which  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  an  important  godling  delivering  oracles 
through  incense.  "That  was  a  dam'  bad  story  you  wrote  of  the 
Sippiac  killings." 

"I  didn't  write  it." 

"Didn't  uh?  You  were  there." 

"My  story  went  to  the  office  cat." 

"What  was  the  stuff  they  printed?  Amalgamated  Wire  As 
sociation?" 

"No.  Machine-made  re-write  in  the  office." 

"It  wasn't  dishonest.  The  Ledger's  too  clever  for  that.  It  was 


The  Vision  311 

unhonest.  You  can't  be  both  neutral  and  fair  on  cold-blooded 
murder." 

"  You  weren't  precisely  neutral  in  The  Courier." 

Edmonds  chuckled.  "I  did  rather  put  it  over  on  the  paper. 
But  that  was  easy.  Simply  a  matter  of  lining  up  the  facts  in 
logical  sequence." 

"Horace  Vanney  says  you're  an  anarchist." 

"It's  mutual.  I  think  he's  one.  To  hell  with  all  laws  and 
rights  that  discommode  Me  and  My  interests.  That's  the  Van 
ney  platform." 

"He  thinks  he  ought  to  have  advertised." 

"Wise  guy !  So  he  ought." 

"To  secure  immunity?  " 

It  required  six  long,  hard  puffs  to  elicit  from  Edmonds  the 
opinion:  "He'd  have  got  it.  Partly.  Not  all  he  paid  for." 

"Not  from  The  Ledger,"  said  Banneker  jealously.  "We're 
independent  in  that  respect." 

Edmonds  laughed.  "  You  don't  have  to  bribe  your  own  heeler. 
The  Ledger  believes  in  Vanney's  kind  of  anarchism,  as  in  a 
religion." 

"Could  he  have  bought  off  The  Courier?" 

"Nothing  as  raw  as  that.  But  it's  quite  possible  that  if  the 
Sippiac  Mills  had  been  a  heavy  advertiser,  the  paper  wouldn't 
have  sent  me  to  the  riots.  Some  one  more  sympathetic,  maybe." 

"Didn't  they  kick  on  your  story?" 

"Who?  The  mill  people?  Howled!" 

"But  it  didn't  get  them  anything?" 

'  Didn't  it !  You  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  get  anything  for 
publication  out  of  old  Rockface  Enderby.  Well,  I  had  a  brilliant 
idea  that  this  was  something  he'd  talk  about.  Law  Enforcement 
stuff,  you  know.  And  he  did.  Gave  me  a  hummer  of  an  inter 
view.  Tore  the  guts  out  of  the  mill-owners  for  violating  all  sorts 
of  laws,  and  put  it  up  that  the  mill-guards  were  themselves  a 
lawless  organization.  There's  nothing  timid  about  Enderby. 
Why,  we'd  have  started  a  controversy  that  would  be  going  yet." 

"Well,  why  didn't  you?" 

"Interview  was  killed,"  replied  Edmonds,  grinning  ruefully. 


312  Success 

"For  the  best  interests  of  the  paper.  That's  what  the  Vanney 
crowd's  kick  got  them." 

"Pop,  what  do  you  make  of  Willis  Enderby?" 

"Oh,  he's  plodding  along  only  a  couple  of  decades  behind  his 
time." 

"A  reactionary?" 

"Didn't  I  say  he  was  plodding  along?  A  reactionary  is  im 
movable  except  in  the  wrong  direction.  Enderby's  a  conserva 
tive." 

"As  a  socialist  you're  against  any  one  who  isn't  as  radical  as 
you  are." 

"I'm  not  against  Willis  Enderby.  I'm  for  him,"  grunted  the 
veteran. 

"Why;  if  he's  a  conservative?" 

"Oh,  as  for  that,  I  can  bring  a  long  indictment  against  him. 
He's  a  firm  believer  in  the  capitalistic  system.  He's  enslaved  to 
the  old  economic  theories,  supply  and  demand,  and  all  that 
rubbish  from  the  ruins  of  ancient  Rome.  He  believes  that  gold 
is  the  only  sound  material  for  pillars  of  society.  The  aristo 
cratic  idea  is  in  his  bones."  Edmonds,  by  a  feat  of  virtuosity, 
sent  a  thin,  straight  column  of  smoke,  as  it  might  have  been  an 
allegorical  and  sardonic  pillar  itself,  almost  to  the  ceiling.  "But 
he  believes  in  fair  play.  Free  speech.  Open  field.  The  rigor  of 
the  game.  He's  a  sportsman  in  life  and  affairs.  That's  why  he's 
dangerous." 

"Dangerous?  To  whom?" 

"To  the  established  order.  To  the  present  system.  Why,  son, 
all  we  Socialists  ask  is  fair  play.  Give  us  an  even  chance  for 
labor,  for  the  proletariat ;  an  even  show  before  the  courts,  an 
open  forum  in  the  newspapers,  the  right  to  organize  as  capital 
organizes,  and  we'll  win.  If  we  can't  win,  we  deserve  to  lose.  I 
say  that  men  like  Willis  Enderby  are  our  strongest  supporters." 

"Probably  he  thinks  his  side  will  win,  under  the  strict  rules  of 
the  game." 

"Of  course.  But  if  he  didn't,  he'd  still  be  for  fair  play,  to  the 
last  inch." 

"That's  a  pretty  fine  thing  to  say  of  a  man,  Pop." 


The  Vision  313 


"It's  a  pretty  fine  man,"  said  Edmonds. 

"What  does  Enderby  want?  What  is  he  after?" 

"For  himself?  Nothing.  It's  something  to  be  known  as  the 
ablest  honest  lawyer  in  New  York.  Or,  you  can  turn  it  around 
and  say  he's  the  honestest  able  lawyer  in  New  York.  I  think, 
myself,  you  wouldn't  be  far  astray  if  you  said  the  ablest  and 
honestest.  No ;  he  doesn't  want  anything  more  than  what  he's 
got:  his  position,  his  money,  his  reputation.  Why  should  he? 
But  it's  going  to  be  forced  on  him  one  of  these  days." 

"Politically?" 

"Yes.  Whatever  there  is  of  leadership  in  the  reform  element 
here  centers  in  him.  It's  only  a  question  of  time  when  he'll  have 
to  carry  the  standard." 

"  I'd  like  to  be  able  to  fall  in  behind  him  when  the  time  comes." 

"On  The  Ledger?"  grunted  Edmonds. 

"  But  I  shan't  be  on  The  Ledger  when  the  time  comes.  Not  if  I 
can  find  any  other  place  to  go." 

"Plenty  of  places,"  affirmed  Edmonds  positively. 

"Yes;  but  will  they  give  me  the  chance  I  want?" 

"Not  unless  you  make  it  for  yourself.  But  let's  canvass  'em. 
You  want  a  morning  paper." 

"Yes.  Not  enough  salary  in  the  evening  field." 

"Well:  you've  thought  of  The  Sphere  first,  I  suppose." 

"Naturally.  I  like  their  editorial  policy.  Their  news  policy 
makes  me  seasick." 

"I'm  not  so  strong  for  the  editorials.  They're  always  for  re 
form  and  never  for  progress." 

"Ah,  but  that's  epigram." 

"  It's  true,  nevertheless.  The  Sphere  is  always  tiptoeing  up  to 
the  edge  of  some  decisive  policy,  and  then  running  back  in  alarm. 
What  of  The  Observer?  They're  looking  for  new  blood." 

"The  Observer !  O  Lord !  Preaches  the  eternal  banalities  and 
believes  them  the  eternal  verities." 

"Epigram,  yourself,"  grinned  Edmonds.  "Well,  The  Moni 
tor?" 

"The  three-card  Monitor,  and  marked  cards  at  that." 

"Yes;  you'd  have  to  watch  the  play.  The  Graphic  then?" 


314  Success 


"  Nothing  but  an  ornamental  ghost.  The  ghost  of  a  once  hand 
somely  kept  lady.  I  don't  aspire  to  write  daily  epitaphs." 

"  And  The  Messenger  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  even  call  a  kept 
lady.  Too  common.  Babylonian  stuff.  But  The  Express  is  re 
spectable  enough  for  anybody." 

"  And  conscious  of  it  in  every  issue.  One  long  and  pious  scold, 
after  a  high-minded,  bad-tempered  formula  of  its  own." 

"Then  I'll  give  you  a  motto  for  your  Ledger."  Edmonds 
puffed  it  out  enjoyably,-  decorated ,  with  bluish  and  delicate 
whorls.  "'Mdiora  video  proboque,  deteriora  sequor.'" 

"No ;  I  won't  have  that.  The  last  part  will  do ;  we  do  follow 
the  worser  way ;  but  if  we  see  the  better,  we  don't  approve  it. 
We  don't  even  recognize  it  as  the  better.  We're  honestly  con 
vinced  in  our  advocacy  of  the  devil." 

"I  don't  know  that  we're  honestly  convinced  of  anything  on 
The  Courier,  except  of  the  desirability  of  keeping  friendly  with 
everybody.  But  such  as  we  are,  we'd  grab  at  you." 

"No;  thanks,  Pop.  You  yourself  are  enough  in  the  troubled- 
water  duckling  line  for  one  old  hen  like  The  Courier." 

"Then  there  remains  only  The  Patriot,  friend  of  the  Pee-pul." 

"Skimmed  scum,"  was  Banneker's  prompt  definition.  "And 
nothing  in  the  soup  underneath." 

Ernst,  the  waiter,  scuttled  across  the  floor  below,  and  disap 
peared  back  of  the  L-angle  a  few  feet  away. 

"Somebody's  dining  there,"  remarked  Edmonds,  "while 
we've  been  stripping  the  character  off  every  paper  in  the  field." 

"  May  it  be  all  the  editors  and  owners  in  a  lump  ! "  said  Banne- 
ker.  "I'm  sorry  I  didn't  talk  louder.  I'm  feeling  reckless." 

"Bad  frame  of  mind  for  a  man  seeking  a  job.  By  the  way, 
what  are  you  out  after,  exactly?  Aiming  at  the  editorial  page, 
aren't  you?" 

Banneker  leaned  over  the  table,  his  face  earnest  to  the  point  of 
somberness.  "Pop,"  he  said,  "you  know  I  can  write." 

"You  can  write  like  the  devil,"  Edmonds  offered  up  on  twin 
supports  of  vapor. 

"Yes,  and  I  can  do  more  than  that.  I  can  think." 

"For  self,  or  others?"  propounded  the  veteran. 


The  Vision  315 

"I  take  you.  I  can  think  for  myself  and  make  it  profitable  to 
others,  if  I  can  find  the  chance.  Why,  Pop,  this  editorial  game  is 
child's  play!" 

" You've  tried  it?" 

"  Experimentally.  The  opportunities  are  limitless.  I  could 
make  people  read  editorials  as  eagerly  as  they  read  scandal  or 
baseball." 

"How?" 

"By  making  them  as  simple  and  interesting  as  scandal  or 
baseball." 

"Oh!  As  easy  as  that,"  observed  Edmonds  scornfully.  "High 
art,  son !  Nobody's  found  the  way  yet.  Perhaps,  if  - 

He  stopped,  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips  and  let  his  raised  eyes 
level  themselves  toward  the  corner  of  the  L  where  appeared  a 
figure. 

"Would  you  gentlemen  mind  if  I  took  my  coffee  with  you?" 
said  the  newcomer  smoothly. 

"Banneker  looked  with  questioning  eyebrows  toward  Edmonds, 
who  nodded.  "  Come  up  and  sit  down,  Mr.  Marrineal,"  invited 
Banneker,  moving  his  chair  to  leave  a  vacancy  between  himself 
and  his  companion. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TERTIUS  C.  MARRINEAL  was  a  man  of  forty,  upon  whom  the 
years  had  laid  no  bonds.  A  large  fortune,  founded  by  his  able  but 
illiterate  father  in  the  timber  stretches  of  the  Great  Lakes  region, 
and  spread  out  into  various  profitable  enterprises  of  mining,  oil, 
cattle,  and  milling,  provided  him  with  a  constantly  increasing 
income  which,  though  no  amateur  at  spending,  he  could  never 
quite  overtake.  Like  many  other  hustlers  of  his  day  and  oppor 
tunity,  old  Steve  Marrineal  had  married  a  shrewd  little  shopgirl 
who  had  come  up  with  him  through  the  struggle  by  the  slow, 
patient  steps  described  in  many  of  our  most  improving  biog 
raphies.  As  frequently  occurs,  though  it  doesn't  get  into  the 
biographies,  she  who  had  played  a  helpful  role  in  adversity, 
could  not  withstand  affluence.  She  bloated  physically  and  men 
tally,  and  became  the  juicy  and  unsuspecting  victim  of  a  horde 
of  parasites  and  flatterers  who  swarmed  eagerly  upon  her,  as  soon 
as  the  rough  and  contemptuous  protection  of  her  husband  was 
removed  by  the  hand  of  a  medical  prodigy  who  advertised  him 
self  as  the  discoverer  of  a  new  and  infallible  cure  for  cancer,  and 
whom  Mrs.  Marrineal,  with  an  instinctive  leaning  toward  quack 
ery,  had  forced  upon  her  spouse.  Appraising  his  prospective 
widow  with  an  accurate  eye,  the  dying  man  left  a  testament 
bestowing  the  bulk  of  his  fortune  upon  his  son,  with  a  few  heavy 
income-producing  properties  for  Mrs.  Marrineal.  Tertius  Marri 
neal  was  devoted  to  his  mother,  with  a  jealous,  pitying,  and  pro 
tective  affection.  This  is  popularly  approved  as  the  infallible 
mark  of  a  good  man.  Tertius  Marrineal  was  not  a  good  man. 

Nor  was  there  any  particular  reason  why  he  should  be.  Boys 
who  have  a  business  pirate  for  father,  and  a  weak-minded  coddler 
for  mother,  seldom  grow  into  prize  exhibits.  Young  Marrineal 
did  rather  better  than  might  have  been  expected,  thanks  to  the 
presence  at  his  birth-cradle  of  a  robust  little  good-fairy  named 
Self-Preservation,  who  never  gets  half  the  credit  given  to  more 
picturesque  but  less  important  gif  t-bringers.  He  grew  up  with  an 
instinctive  sense  of  when  to  stop,  Sometimes  he  stopped  inop- 


The  Vision  317 

portunely.  He  quit  several  courses  of  schooling  too  soon,  because 
he  did  not  like  the  unyielding  regimen  of  the  institutions.  When, 
a  little  belated,  he  contrived  to  gain  entrance  to  a  small,  old, 
and  fashionable  Eastern  college,  he  was  able,  or  perhaps  willing, 
to  go  only  halfway  through  his  sophomore  year.  Two  years  in 
world  travel  with  a  well-accredited  tutor  seemed  to  offer  an 
effectual  and  not  too  rigorous  method  of  completing  the  process 
of  mind-formation.  Young  Marrineal  got  a  great  deal  out  of  that 
trip,  though  the  result  should  perhaps  be  set  down  under  the 
E  of  Experience  rather  than  that  of  Erudition.  The  mentor  also 
acquired  experience,  but  it  profited  him  little,  as  he  died  within 
the  year  after  the  completion  of  the  trip,  his  health  having  been 
sacrificed  in  a  too  conscientious  endeavor  to  keep  even  pace  with 
his  pupil.  Young  Marrineal  did  not  suffer  in  health.  He  was  a 
robust  specimen.  Besides,  there  was  his  good  and  protective 
fairy  always  ready  with  the  flag  of  warning  at  the  necessary 
moment. 

Launched  into  the  world  after  the  elder  MarrineaPs  death, 
Tertius  interested  himself  in  sundry  of  the  businesses  left  by 
his  father.  Though  they  had  been  carefully  devised  and  sur 
rounded  with  safeguards,  the  heir  managed  to  break  into  and 
improve  several  of  them.  The  result  was  more  money.  After 
having  gambled  with  fair  luck,  played  the  profuse  libertine  for  a 
time,  tried  his  hand  at  yachting,  horse-racing,  big-game  hunting, 
and  even  politics,  he  successively  tired  of  the  first  three,  and  was 
beaten  at  the  last,  but  retained  an  unsatisfied  hunger  for  it.  To 
celebrate  his  fortieth  birthday,  he  had  bought  a  house  on  the 
eastern  vista  of  Central  Park,  and  drifted  into  a  rather  inde 
terminate  life,  identified  with  no  special  purpose,  occupation,  or 
set.  Large  though  his  fortune  was,  it  was  too  much  disseminated 
and  he  was  too  indifferent  to  it,  for  him  to  be  conspicuous  in  the 
money  game  which  constitutes  New  York's  lists  of  High  En 
deavor.  His  reputation,  in  the  city  of  careless  reckonings,  was 
vague,  but  just  a  trifle  tarnished;  good  enough  for  the  casual 
contacts  which  had  hitherto  made  up  his  life,  but  offering  diffi 
culties  should  he  wish  to  establish  himself  more  firmly. 

The  best  clubs  were  closed  to  him ;  he  had  reached  his  possible 


318  Success 

summit  along  that  path  in  achieving  membership  in  the  recently 
and  superbly  established  Oligarchs  Club,  which  was  sumptuous, 
but  over-vivid  like  a  new  Oriental  rug.  As  to  other  social  ad 
vancement,  his  record  was  an  obstacle.  Not  that  it  was  worse 
than,  nor  indeed  nearly  as  bad  as,  that  of  many  an  established 
member  of  the  inner  circle ;  but  the  test  for  an  outsider  seeking 
admittance  is  naturally  made  more  severe.  Delavan  Eyre,  for 
example,  an  average  sinner  for  one  of  his  opportunities  and 
standing,  had  certainly  no  better  a  general  repute,  and  latterly  a 
much  more  dubious  one  than  Marrineal.  But  Eyre  "  belonged " 
of  right. 

As  sufficient  indication  of  Marrineal's  status,  by  the  way,  it 
may  be  pointed  out  that,  while  he  knew  Eyre  quite  well,  it  was 
highly  improbable  that  he  would  ever  know  Mrs.  Eyre,  or,  if  he 
did  fortuitously  come  to  know  her,  that  he  would  be  able  to  im 
prove  upon  the  acquaintance.  All  this  Marrineal  himself  well 
understood.  But  it  must  not  be  inferred  that  he  resented  it. 
He  was  far  too  much  of  a  philosopher  for  that.  It  amused  him 
as  offering  a  new  game  to  be  played,  more  difficult  certainly  and 
inferentially  more  interesting  than  any  of  those  which  had 
hitherto  enlisted  his  somewhat  languid  efforts.  He  appreciated 
also,  though  with  a  cynical  disbelief  in  the  logic  of  the  situation, 
that  he  must  polish  up  his  reputation.  He  was  on  the  new  quest 
at  the  time  when  he  overheard  Banneker  and  Edmonds  discuss 
the  journalistic  situation  in  Katie's  restaurant,  and  had  already 
determined  upon  his  procedure. 

Sitting  between  the  two  newspaper  workers,  Marrineal  over 
topped  them  both ;  the  supple  strength  of  Banneker  as  well  as 
the  gnarly  slenderness  of  Edmonds.  He  gave  an  impression  of 
loose-jointed  and  rather  lazy  power ;  also  of  quiet  self-confidence. 
He  began  to  talk  at  once,  with  the  easy,  drifting  commentary  of  a 
man  who  had  seen  everything,  measured  much,  and  liked  the 
glittering  show.  Both  of  the  others,  one  his  elder,  the  other  his 
junior,  felt  the  ready  charm  of  the  man.  Both  were  content  to 
listen,  waiting  for  the  clue  to  his  intrusion  which  he  had  con 
trived  to  make  not  only  inoffensive,  but  seemingly  a  casual  act 
of  good-fellowship.  The  clue  was  not  afforded,  but  presently 


The  Vision  319 

some  shrewd  opinion  of  the  newcomer  upon  the  local  political 
situation  set  them  both  to  discussion.  Quite  insensibly  Marrineal 
withdrew  from  the  conversation,  sipping  his  coffee  and  listening 
with  an  effect  of  effortless  amenity. 

"If  we  had  a  newspaper  here  that  wasn't  tied  hard  and  fast, 
politically ! "  cried  Edmonds  presently. 

Marrineal  fingered  a  specially  fragrant  cigar.  "But  a  news 
paper  must  be  tied  to  something,  mustn't  it?"  he  queried. 
"Otherwise  it  drifts." 

"Why  not  to  its  reading  public?"  suggested  Banneker. 

"That's  an  idea.  But  can  you  tie  to  a  public ?  Isn't  the  public 
itself  adrift,  like  seaweed?" 

"Blown  about  by  the  gales  of  politics."  Edmonds  accepted 
the  figure.  "Well,  the  newspaper  ought  to  be  the  gale." 

"I  gather  that  you  gentlemen  do  not  think  highly  of  present 
journalistic  conditions." 

"You  overheard  our  discussion,"  said  Banneker  bluntly. 

Marrineal  assented.  "It  did  not  seem  private.  Katie's  is  a 
sort  of  free  forum.  That  is  why  I  come.  I  like  to  listen.  Besides, 
it  touched  me  pretty  closely  at  one  or  two  points." 

The  two  others  turned  toward  him,  waiting.  He  nodded,  and 
took  upon  himself  an  air  of  well-pondered  frankness.  "I  expect 
to  take  a  more  active  part  in  journalism  from  now  on." 

Edmonds  followed  up  the  significant  phrase.  "More  active? 
You  have  newspaper  interests?" 

"Practically  speaking,  I  own  The  Patriot.  What  do  you  gen 
tlemen  think  of  it?" 

"Who  reads  The  Patriot?"  inquired  Banneker.  He  was  un 
prepared  for  the  swift  and  surprised  flash  from  Marrineal's  fine 
eyes,  as  if  some  profoundly  analytical  or  revealing  suggestion 
had  been  made. 

"Forty  thousand  men,  women,  and  children.  Not  half 
enough,  of  course." 

"Not  a  tenth  enough,  I  would  say,  if  I  owne^  the  paper.  Nor 
are  they  the  right  kind  of  readers." 

"How  would  you  define  them,  then?"  asked  Marrineal,  still 
In  that  smooth  voice. 


320  Success 

"Small  clerks.  Race-track  followers.  People  living  in  that 
class  of  tenements  which  call  themselves  flats.  The  more  in 
telligent  servants.  Totally  unimportant  people." 

"Therefore  a  totally  unimportant  paper?" 

"A  paper  can  be  important  only  through  what  it  makes  people 
believe  and  think.  What  possible  difference  can  it  make  what 
The  Patriot's  readers  think?" 

"If  there  were  enough  of  them?"  suggested  Marrineal. 

"No.  Besides,  you'll  never  get  enough  of  them,  in  the  way 
you're  running  the  paper  now." 

"Don't  say  'you,'  please,"  besought  Marrineal.  "I've  been 
keeping  my  hands  off.  Watching." 

"And  now  you're  going  to  take  hold?"  queried  Edmonds. 
"Personally?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  find  my  formula  —  and  the  men  to  help  me 
work  it  out,"  he  added,  after  a  pause  so  nicely  emphasized  that 
both  his  hearers  had  a  simultaneous  inkling  of  the  reason  for  his 
being  at  their  table. 

"I've  seen  newspapers  run  on  formula  before,"  muttered 
Edmonds. 

"Onto  the  rocks?" 

"Invariably." 

"That's  because  the  formulas  were  amateur  formulas,  isn't 
it?" 

The  veteran  of  a  quarter-century  turned  a  mildly  quizzical 
smile  upon  the  adventurer  into  risky  waters.  "Well?"  he  jerked 
out. 

Marrineal's  face  was  quite  serious  as  he  took  up  the  obvious 
implication.  "Where  is  the  dividing  line  between  professional 
and  amateur  in  the  newspaper  business?  You  gentlemen  will 
bear  with  me  if  I  go  into  personal  details  a  little.  I  suppose  I've 
always  had  the  newspaper  idea.  When  I  was  a  youngster  of 
twenty,  I  tried  myself  out.  Got  a  job  as  a  reporter  in  St.  Louis. 
It  was  just  a  callow  escapade.  And  of  course  it  couldn't  last.  I 
was  an  undisciplined  sort  of  cub.  They  fired  me ;  quite  right,  too. 
But  I  did  learn  a  little.  And  at  least  it  educated  me  in  one  thing ; 
how  to  read  newspapers."  He  laughed  lightly.  " Perhaps  that  is 


The  Vision  321 

as  nearly  thorough  an  education  as  I've  ever  had  in  any 
thing." 

"  It's  rather  an  art,  newspaper  reading,"  observed  Banneker. 

"You've  tried  it,  I  gather.  So  have  I,  rather  exhaustively  in 
the  last  year.  I've  been  reading  every  paper  in  New  York  every 
day  and  all  through." 

"  That's  a  job  for  an  able-minded  man,"  commented  Edmonds, 
looking  at  him  with  a  new  respect. 

"It  put  eye-glasses  on  me.  But  if  it  dimmed  my  eyes,  it 
enlightened  my  mind.  The  combined  newspapers  of  New  York 
do  not  cover  the  available  field.  They  do  not  begin  to  cover 
it.  ...  Did  you  say  something,  Mr.  Banneker?" 

"Did  I?  I  didn't  mean  to,"  said  Banneker  hastily.  "I'm  a 
good  deal  interested." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  returned  Marrineal  with  gravity. 
"After  I'd  made  my  estimate  of  what  the  newspapers  publish 
and  fail  to  publish,  I  canvassed  the  circulation  lists  and  news 
stands  and  made  another  discovery.  There  is  a  large  potential 
reading  public  not  yet  tied  up  to  any  newspaper.  It's  waiting 
for  the  right  paper." 

"The  imputation  of  amateurishness  is  retracted,  with  apolo 
gies,"  announced  Russell  Edmonds. 

"Accepted.  Though  there  are  amateur  areas  yet  in  my  mind. 
I  bought  The  Patriot." 

"Does  that  represent  one  of  the  areas?" 

"It  represents  nothing,  thus  far,  except  what  it  has  always 
represented,  a  hand-to-mouth  policy  and  a  financial  deficit. 
But  what's  wrong  with  it  from  your  point  of  view?" 

"Cheap  and  nasty,"  was  the  veteran's  succinct  criticism. 

"Any  more  so  than  The  Sphere?  The  Sphere's  successful." 

"  Because  it  plays  fair  with  the  main  facts.  It  may  gloss  'em  up 
with  a  touch  of  sensationalism,  like  the  oil  on  a  barkeep's  hair. 
But  it  does  go  after  the  facts,  and  pretty  generally  it  presents  'em 
as  found.  The  Patriot  is  fakey;  clumsy  at  it,  too.  Any  man 
arrested  with  more  than  five  dollars  in  his  pocket  is  a  millionaire 
clubman.  If  Bridget  O'Flaherty  jumps  off  Brooklyn  Bridge,  she 
becomes  a  prominent  society  woman  with  picture  (hers  or  some- 


322  Success 

body  else's)  in  The  Patriot.  And  the  cheapest  little  chorus-girl 
tart,  who  blackmails  a  broker's  clerk  with  a  breach  of  promise, 
gets  herself  called  a  '  distinguished  actress'  and  him  a  'well- 
known  financier.'  Why  steal  the  Police  Gazette's  rouge  and 
lip-stick?" 

"  Because  it's  what  the  readers  want." 

"  All  right.  But  at  least  give  it  to  'em  well  done.  And  cut  out 
the  printing  of  wild  rumors  as  news.  That  doesn't  get  a.  paper 
anything  in  the  long  run.  None  of  your  readers  have  any  faith 
in  The  Patriot." 

"Does  any  paper  have  the  confidence  of  its  public?"  returned 
Marrineal. 

Touched  upon  a  sensitive  spot,  Edmonds  cursed  briefly.  "If 
it  hasn't,  it's  because  the  public  has  a  dam'-fool  fad  for  pretend 
ing  it  doesn't  believe  what  it  reads.  Of  course  it  believes  it! 
Otherwise,  how  would  it  know  who's  president,  or  that  the 
market  sagged  yesterday  ?  This  '  I-never-believe-what-I-read-in- 
the-papers'  guff  makes  me  sick  to  the  tips  of  my  toes." 

"Only  the  man  who  knows  newspapers  from  the  inside  can 
disbelieve  them  scientifically,"  put  in  Banneker  with  a  smile. 

"What  would  you  do  with  The  Patriot  if  you  had  it?"  inter 
rogated  the  proprietor. 

"I?  Oh,  I'd  try  to  make  it  interesting,"  was  the  prompt  and 
simple  reply. 

"How,  interesting?" 

For  his  own  purposes  Banneker  chose  to  misinterpret  the 
purport  of  the  question.  "So  interesting  that  half  a  million 
people  would  have  to  read  it." 

"You  think  you  could  do  that?" 

"I  think  it  could  be  done." 

"Will  you  come  with  me  and  try  it?" 

"You're  offering  me  a  place  on  The  Patriot  staff?" 

"Precisely.  Mr.  Edmonds  is  joining." 

That  gentleman  breathed  a  small  cloud  of  blue  vapor  into  the 
air  together  with  the  dispassionate  query:  "Is  that  so?  Hadn't 
heard  of  it." 

"My  principle  in  business  is  to  determine  whether  I  want 


The  Vision  323 

a  man  or  an  article,  and  then  bid  a  price  that  can't  be  re 
jected." 

"Sound,"  admitted  the  veteran.  "Perfectly  sound.  But  I'm 
not  specially  in  need  of  money." 

"I'm  offering  you  opportunity." 

"What  kind?" 

"Opportunity  to  handle  big  stories  according  to  the  facts  as 
you  see  them.  Not  as  you  had  to  handle  the  Sippiac  strike 
story." 

Edmonds  set  down  his  pipe.  "  What  did  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"  A  masterpiece  of  hinting  and  suggestion  and  information  for 
those  who  can  read  between  the  lines.  Not  many  have  the  eye  for 
it.  With  me  you  won't  have  to  write  between  the  lines.  Not  on 
labor  or  political  questions,  anyway.  You're  a  Socialist,  aren't 
you?" 

"Yes.  You're  not  going  to  make  The  Patriot  a  Socialist  paper, 
are  you?" 

"  Some  people  might  call  it  that.  I'm  going  to  make  it  a  popu 
lar  paper.  It's  going  to  be  for  the  many  against  the  few.  How  are 
you  going  to  bring  about  Socialism?" 

"Education." 

"Exactly!  What  better  chance  could  you  ask?  A  paper  de 
voted  to  the  interests  of  the  masses,  and  willing  to  print  facts. 
I  want  you  to  do  the  same  sort  of  thing  that  you've  been  doing 
for  The  Courier;  a  job  of  handling  the  big,  general  stories. 
You'll  be  responsible  to  me  alone.  The  salary  will  be  a  third 
higher  than  you  are  now  getting.  Think  it  over." 

"I've  thought.  I'm  bought,"  said  Russell  Edmonds.  Hfe  it- 
sumed  his  pipe. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Banneker?" 

"I'm  not  a  Socialist,  in  the  party  sense.  Besides  a  Socialist 
paper  in  New  York  has  no  chance  of  big  circulation." 

"Oh,  The  Patriot  isn't  going  to  tag  itself.  Politically  it  will  be 
independent.  Its  policy  will  be  socialistic  only  in  that  it  will  be 
for  labor  rather  than  capital  and  for  the  under  dog  as  against  the 
upper  dog.  It  certainly  won't  tie  up  to  the  Socialist  Party  or 
advocate  its  principles.  It's  for  fair  play  and  education." 


324  Success 

"  What's  your  purpose  ?  "  demanded  Banneker.  "  Money  ?  " 

"I've  a  very  comfortable  income,"  replied  Marrineal  mod 
estly. 

"  Political  advancement  ?  Influence  ?  Want  to  pull  the  wires  ?" 
persisted  the  other. 

"The  game.  I'm  out  of  employment  and  tired  of  it." 

"  And  you  think  I  could  be  of  use  in  your  plan?  But  you  don't 
know  much  about  me." 

Marrineal  murmured  smilingly  something  indefinite  but  com 
plimentary  as  to  Banneker's  reputation  on  Park  Row ;  but  this 
was  by  no  means  a  fair  index  to  what  he  knew  about  Banneker. 

Indeed,  that  prematurely  successful  reporter  would  have  been 
surprised  at  the  extent  to  which  Marrineal's  private  investiga 
tions  had  gone.  Not  only  was  the  purchaser  of  The  Patriot  ap 
prised  of  Banneker's  professional  career  in  detail,  but  he  knew  of 
his  former  employment,  and  also  of  his  membership  in  The 
Retreat,  which  he  regarded  with  perplexity  and  admiration. 
Marrineal  was  skilled  at  ascertainments.  He  made  a  specialty 
of  knowing  all  about  people. 

"  With  Mr.  Edmonds  on  roving  commission  and  you  to  handle 
the  big  local  stuff,"  he  pursued,  "we  should  have  the  nucleus  of  a 
news  organization.  Like  him,  you  would  be  responsible  to  me 
alone.  And,  of  course,  it  would  be  made  worth  your  while. 
What  do  you  think?  Will  you  join  us?" 

"No." 

"No?"  There  was  no  slightest  hint  of  disappointment,  sur 
prise,  or  resentment  in  Marrineal's  manner.  "Do  you  mind 
giving  me  the  reason?" 

"I  don't  care  to  be  a  reporter  on  The  Patriot." 

"Well,  this  would  hardly  be  reporting.  At  least,  a  very  spe 
cialized  and  important  type." 

"  For  that  matter,  I  don't  care  to  be  a  reporter  on  any  paper 
much  longer.  Besides,  you  need  me  —  or  some  one  —  in  another 
department  more  than  in  the  news  section." 

"You  don't  like  the  editorials,"  was  the  inference  which 
Marrineal  drew  from  this,  and  correctly. 

"I  think  they're  solemn  flapdoodle." 


The  Vision  325 

"So  do  I.  Occasionally  I  write  them  myself  and  send  them  in 
quietly.  It  isn't  known  yet  that  I  own  the  property ;  so  I  don't 
appear  at  the  office.  Mine  are  quite  as  solemn  and  flapdoodlish 
as  the  others.  To  which  quality  do  you  object  the  most?" 

"Solemnity.  It's  the  blight  of  editorial  expression.  All  the 
papers  suffer  from  it." 

"Then  you  wouldn't  have  the  editorial  page  modeled  on  that 
of  any  of  our  contemporaries." 

"No.  I'd  try  to  make  it  interesting.  There  isn't  a  page  in 
town  that  the  average  man-in-the-street-car  can  read  without  a 
painful  effort  at  thought." 

"Editorials  are  supposed  to  be  for  thinking  men,"  put  in 
Edmonds. 

"Make  the  thinking  easy,  then.  Don't  make  it  hard,  with 
heavy  words  and  a  didactic  manner.  Talk  to  'em.  You're  trying 
to  reach  for  their  brain  mechanism.  Wrong  idea.  Reach  for  their 
coat-lapels.  Hook  a  finger  in  the  buttonholes  and  tell  'em  some 
thing  about  common  things  they  never  stopped  to  consider. 
Our  editorializers  are  always  tucking  their  hands  into  their 
oratorical  bosoms  and  discoursing  in  a  sonorous  voice  about 
freight  differentials  as  an  element  in  stabilizing  the  market. 
How  does  that  affect  Jim  Jones  ?  Why,  Jim  turns  to  the  sporting 
page.  But  if  you  say  to  him  casually,  in  print,  'Do  you  realize 
that  every  woman  who  brings  a  child  into  the  world  shows  more 
heroism  than  Teddy  Roosevelt  when  he  charged  up  San  Juan 
Hill?' — what'll  Jim  do  about  that?  Turn  to  the  sporting  page 
just  the  same,  maybe.  But  after  he's  absorbed  the  ball-scores, 
he'll  turn  back  to  the  editorial.  You  see,  he  never  thought  about 
Mrs.  Jones  just  that  way  before." 

"Sentimentalism,"  observed  Marrineal.  "Not  altogether 
original,  either."  But  he  did  not  speak  as  a  critic.  Rather  as 
one  pondering  upon  new  vistas  of  thought. 

"  Why  shouldn't  an  editorial  be  sentimental  about  something 
besides  the  starry  flag  and  the  boyhood  of  its  party's  candidate  ? 
Original  ?  I  shouldn't  worry  overmuch  about  that.  All  my  time 
would  be  occupied  in  trying  to  be  interesting.  After  I  got  'em 
interested,  I  could  perhaps  be  instructive.  Very  cautiously, 


326  Success 

though.  But  always  man  to  man :  that's  the  editorial  trick,  as  I 
see  it.  Not  preacher  to  congregation." 

"Where  are  your  editorials,  son?  "  asked  the  veteran  Edmonds 
abruptly. 

"Locked  up."  Banneker  tapped  his  forehead. 

"In  the  place  of  their  birth?"  smiled  Marrineal. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  too  much  credit  for  my  idea.  A  fair  share 
of  it  belongs  to  a  bald-headed  and  snarling  old  nondescript  whom 
I  met  one  day  in  the  Public  Library  and  shall  probably  never 
meet  again  anywhere.  Somebody  had  pointed  me  out  —  it  was 
after  that  shooting  mess  —  and  the  old  fellow  came  up  to  me  and 
growled  out,  '  Employed  on  a  newspaper  ? '  I  admitted  it.  *  What 
do  you  know  about  news?'  was  his  next  question.  Well,  I'm 
always  open  to  any  fresh  slants  on  the  business,  so  I  asked  him 
politely  what  he  knew.  He  put  on  an  expression  like  a  prayerful 
owl  and  said,  *  Suppose  I  came  into  your  office  with  the  informa 
tion  that  a  destructive  plague  was  killing  off  the  earthworms  ? ' 
Naturally,  I  thought  one  of  the  librarians  had  put  up  a  joke  on 
me ;  so  I  said,  '  Refer  you  to  the  Anglers '  Department  of  the  All- 
Outdoors  Monthly.'  'That  is  as  far  as  you  could  see  into  the 
information?'  he  said  severely.  I  had  to  confess  that  it  was. 
'  And  you  are  supposed  to  be  a  judge  of  news ! '  he  snarled.  Well, 
he  seemed  so  upset  about  it  that  I  tried  to  be  soothing  by  asking 
him  if  there  was  an  earthworm  pestilence  in  progress.  'No/ 
answers  he,  *  and  lucky  for  you.  For  if  the  earthworms  all  died, 
so  would  you  and  the  rest  of  us,  including  your  accursed  brood 
of  newspapers,  which  would  be  some  compensation.  Read 
Darwin,'  croaks  the  old  bird,  and  calls  me  a  callow  fool,  and  flits." 

"Who  was  he?  Did  you  find  out?"  asked  Edmonds. 

"Some  scientific  grubber  from  the  museum.  I  looked  up  the 
Darwin  book  and  decided  that  he  was  right ;  not  Darwin ;  the 
old  croaker." 

"Still,  that  was  not  precisely  news,"  pointed  out  Marrineal. 

"Theoretical  news.  I'm  not  sure,"  pursued  Banneker,  struck 
with  a  new  idea,  "  that  that  isn't  the  formula  for  editorial  writing ; 
theoretical  news.  Supplemented  by  analytical  news,  of  course." 

"Philosophizing  over  Darwin  and  dead  worms  would  hardly 


The  Vision  327 


inspire  half  a  million  readers  to  follow  your  editorial  output,  day 
after  day."  Marrineal  delivered  his  opinion  suavely. 

"Not  if  written  in  the  usual  style,  suggesting  a  conscientious 
rehash  of  the  encyclopedia.  But  suppose  it  were  done  differ 
ently,  and  with  a  caption  like  this,  '  Why  Does  an  Angle- Worm 
Wriggle  ? '  Set  that  in  irregular  type  that  weaved  and  squirmed 
across  the  column,  and  Jones-in-the-street-car  would  at  least 
look  at  it." 

"Good  Heavens!  I  should  think  so,"  assented  Marrineal. 
"And  call  for  the  police." 

"Or,  if  that  is  too  sensational,"  continued  Banneker,  warming 
up,  "we  could  head  it  'Charles  Darwin  Would  Never  Go  Fish 
ing,  Because'  and  a  heavy  dash  after  'because.'" 

"Fakey,"  pronounced  Edmonds.  "Still,  I  don't  know  that 
there's  any  harm  in  that  kind  of  faking." 

"Merely  a  trick  to  catch  the  eye.  I  don't  know  whether 
Darwin  ever  went  fishing  or  not.  Probably  he  did  if  only  for  his 
researches.  But,  in  essentials,  I'm  giving  'em  a  truth;  a  big 
truth." 

"What?"  inquired  Marrineal. 

"Solemn  sermonizers  would  call  it  the  inter-relations  of  life 
or  something  to  that  effect.  What  I'm  after  is  to  coax  'em  to 
think  a  little." 

"About  angle-worms?" 

"  About  anything.  It's  the  process  I'm  after.  Only  let  me  start 
them  thinking  about  evolution  and  pretty  soon  I'll  have  them 
thinking  about  the  relations  of  modern  society  —  and  thinking 
my  way.  Five  hundred  thousand  people,  all  thinking  in  the  way 
we  told  'em  to  think  — 

"  Could  elect  Willis  Enderby  mayor  of  New  York,"  interjected 
the  practical  Edmonds. 

Marrineal,  whose  face  had  become  quite  expressionless,  gave  a 
little  start.  "Who?"  he  said. 

"Judge  Enderby  of  the  Law  Enforcement  Society." 

"Oh  !   Yes.  Of  course.  Or  any  one  else." 

"Or  any  one  else,"  agreed  Banneker,  catching  a  quick,  in 
formed  glance  from  Edmonds. 


328  Success 

"Frankly,  your  scheme  seems  a  little  fantastic  to  me,"  pro 
nounced  the  owner  of  The  Patriot.  "But  that  may  be  only 
because  it's  new.  It  might  be  worth  trying  out."  He  reverted 
again  to  his  expressionless  reverie,  out  of  which  exhaled  the 
observation :  "  I  wonder  what  the  present  editorial  staff  could  do 
with  that." 

"Am  I  to  infer  that  you  intend  to  help  yourself  to  my  idea?" 
inquired  Banneker. 

Mr.Marrineal  aroused  himself  hastily  from  hiseditorial  dream. 
Though  by  no  means  a  fearful  person,  he  was  uncomfortably 
sensible  of  a  menace,  imminent  and  formidable.  It  was  not  in 
Banneker's  placid  face,  nor  in  the  unaltered  tone  wherein  the 
pertinent  query  was  couched.  Nevertheless,  the  object  of  that 
query  became  aware  that  young  Banneker  was  not  a  person  to  be 
trifled  with.  He  now  went  on,  equably  to  say : 

"  Because,  if  you  do,  it  might  be  as  well  to  give  me  the  chance 
of  developing  it." 

Possibly  the  "Of  course,"  with  which  Marrineal  responded  to 
this  reasonable  suggestion,  was  just  a  little  bit  over-prompt. 

"  Give  me  ten  days.  No :  two  weeks,  and  I'll  be  ready  to  show 
my  wares.  Where  can  I  find  you?" 

Marrineal  gave  a  telephone  address.  "It  isn't  in  the  book," 
he  said.  "It  will  always  get  me  between  9  A.M.  and  noon." 

They  talked  of  matters  journalistic,  Marrineal  lapsing  tact 
fully  into  the  role  of  attentive  listener  again,  until  there  appeared 
in  the  lower  room  a  dark-faced  man  of  thirty-odd,  spruce  and 
alert,  who,  upon  sighting  them,  came  confidently  forward. 
Marrineal  ordered  him  a  drink  and  presented  him  to  the  two 
journalists  as  Mr.  Ely  Ives.  As  Mr.  Ives,  it  appeared,  was  in  the 
secret  of  Marrineal's  journalistic  connection,  the  talk  was  re 
sumed,  becoming  more  general.  Presently  Marrineal  consulted 
his  watch. 

"You're  not  going  up  to  the  After-Theater  Club  to-night?" 
he  asked  Banneker,  and,  on  receiving  a  negative  reply,  made  his 
adieus  and  went  out  with  Ives  to  his  waiting  car. 

Banneker  and  Edmonds  looked  at  each  other.  "Don't  both 
speak  at  once,"  chuckled  Banneker.  "What  do  you?" 


The  Vision  329 

"Think  of  him?  He's  a  smooth  article.  Very  smooth.  But 
I've  seen  'em  before  that  were  straight  as  well  as  smooth." 

"  Bland,"  said  Banneker.  "  Bland  with  a  surpassing  blandness. 
A  blandness  amounting  to  blandeur,  as  grandness  in  the  highest 
degree  becomes  grandeur.  I  like  that  word,"  Banneker  chuck- 
lingly  approved  himself.  "  But  I  wouldn't  use  it  in  an  editorial, 
one  of  those  editorials  that  our  genial  friend  was  going  to 
appropriate  so  coolly.  A  touch  of  the  pirate  in  him,  I  think.  I 
like  him." 

"Yes;  you  have  to.  He  makes  himself  likable.  What  do  you 
figure  Mr.  Ely  Ives  to  be?" 

"Henchman." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"I've  seen  him  uptown,  once  or  twice.  He  has  some  reputation 
as  an  amateur  juggler." 

"  I  know  him,  too.  But  he  doesn't  remember  me  or  he  wouldn't 
have  been  so  pleasant,"  said  the  veteran,  committing  two  errors 
in  one  sentence,  for  Ely  Ives  had  remembered  him  perfectly,  and 
in  any  case  would  never  have  exhibited  any  unnecessary  rancor 
in  his  carefully  trained  manner.  "  Wrote  a  story  about  him  once. 
He's  quite  a  betting  man ;  some  say  a  sure-thing  bettor.  Several 
years  ago  Bob  Wessington  was  giving  one  of  his  famous  booze 
parties  on  board  his  yacht  'The  Water- Wain,'  and  this  chap  was 
in  on  it  somehow.  When  everybody  was  tanked  up,  they  got  to 
doing  stunts  and  he  bet  a  thousand  with  Wessington  he  could 
swarm  up  the  backstay  to  the  masthead.  Two  others  wished  in 
for  a  thousand  apiece,  and  he  cleaned  up  the  lot.  It  cut  his  hands 
up  pretty  bad,  but  that  was  cheap  at  three  thousand.  After 
wards  it  turned  out  that  he'd  been  practicing  that  very  climb  in 
heavy  gloves,  down  in  South  Brooklyn.  So  I  wrote  the  story. 
He  came  back  with  a  threat  of  a  libel  suit.  Fool  bluff,  for  it 
wasn't  libelous.  But  I  looked  up  his  record  a  little  and  found  he 
was  an  ex-medical  student,  from  Chicago,  where  he'd  been  on 
The  Chronicle  for  a  while.  He  quit  that  to  become  a  press-agent 
for  a  group  of  oil-gamblers,  and  must  have  done  some  good  selling 
himself,  for  he  had  money  when  he  landed  here.  To  the  best  of 
my  knowledge  he  is  now  a  sort  of  lookout  for  the  Combination 


330  Success 

Traction  people,  with  some  connection  with  the  City  Illuminat 
ing  Company  on  the  side.  It's  a  secret  sort  of  connection." 

Banneker  made  the  world-wide  symbolistic  finger-shuffle 
of  money-handling.  "Legislative?"  he  inquired. 

"Possibly.  But  it's  more  keeping  a  watch  on  publicity  and 
politics.  He  gives  himself  out  as  a  man-about-town,  and  is  sup 
posed  to  make  a  good  thing  out  of  the  market.  Maybe  he  does, 
though  I  notice  that  generally  the  market  makes  a  good  thing  out 
of  the  smart  guy  who  tries  to  beat  it." 

"Not  a  particularly  desirable  person  for  a  colleague." 

"I  doubt  if  he'd  be  Marrineal's  colleague  exactly.  The  inside 
of  the  newspaper  isn't  his  game.  More  likely  he's  making  himself 
attractive  and  useful  to  Marrineal  just  to  find  out  what  he's  up 
to  with  his  paper." 

"I'll  show  him  something  interesting  if  I  get  hold  of  that  edi 
torial  page." 

"Son,  are  you  up  to  it,  d'you  think?"  asked  Edmonds  with 
affectionate  solicitude.  "It  takes  a  lot  of  experience  to  handle 
policies." 

"I'll  have  you  with  me,  won't  I,  Pop?  Besides,  if  my  little 
scheme  works,  I'm  going  out  to  gather  experience  like  a  bee  after 
honey." 

"We'll  make  a  queer  team,  we  three,"  mused  the  veteran, 
shaking  his  bony  head,  as  he  leaned  forward  over  his  tiny  pipe. 
His  protuberant  forehead  seemed  to  overhang  the  idea  pro 
tectively.  Or  perhaps  threateningly.  "None  of  us  looks  at  a 
newspaper  from  the  same  angle  or  as  the  same  kind  of  a  machine 
as  the  others  view  it." 

"  Never  mind  our  views.  They'll  assimilate.  What  about  his  ?" 

"  Ah  !  I  wish  I  knew.  But  he  wants  something.  Like  all  of  us." 
A  shade  passed  across  the  clearly  modeled  severity  of  the  face. 
Edmonds  sighed.  "I  don't  know  but  that  I'm  too  old  for  this 
kind  of  experiment.  Yet  I've  fallen  for  the  temptation." 

"  Pop,"  said  Banneker  with  abrupt  irrelevance,  "  there's  a  line 
from  Emerson  that  you  make  me  think  of  when  you  look  like 
that.  'His  sad  lucidity  of  soul.'" 

"Do  I?  But  it  isn't  Emerson.  It's  Matthew  Arnold." 


The  Vision  331 

"Where  do  you  find  time  for  poetry,  you  old  wheelhorse! 
Never  mind ;  you  ought  to  be  painted  as  the  living  embodiment 
of  that  line." 

"Or  as  a  wooden  automaton,  jumping  at  the  end  of  a  special 
wire  from  'our  correspondent.'  Ban,  can  you  see  Marrineal's 
hand  on  a  wire?" 

"If  it's  plain  enough  to  be  visible,  I'm  underestimating  his 
tact.  I'd  like  to  have  a  lock  of  his  hair  to  dream  on  to-night. 
I'm  off  to  think  things  over,  Pop.  Good-night." 

Banneker  walked  uptown,  through  dimmed  streets  humming 
with  the  harmonic  echoes  of  the  city's  never-ending  life,  faint 
and  delicate.  He  stopped  at  Sherry's,  and  at  a  small  table  in  the 
side  room  sat  down  with  a  bottle  of  ale,  a  cigarette,  and  some 
stationery.  When  he  rose,  it  was  to  mail  a  letter.  That  done,  he 
went  back  to  his  costly  little  apartment  upon  which  the  rent 
would  be  due  in  a  few  days.  He  had  the  cash  in  hand :  that  was 
all  right.  As  for  the  next  month,  he  wondered  humorously 
whether  he  would  have  the  wherewithal  to  meet  the  recurring 
bill,  not  to  mention  others.  However,  the  consideration  was  not 
weighty  enough  to  keep  him  sleepless. . . . 

Custom  kindly  provides  its  own  patent  shock-absorbers  to  all 
the  various  organisms  of  nature;  otherwise  the  whole  regime 
would  perish.  Necessarily  a  newspaper  is  among  the  best  pro 
tected  of  organisms  against  shock :  it  deals,  as  one  might  say, 
largely  in  shocks,  and  its  hand  is  subdued  to  what  it  works  in. 
Nevertheless,  on  the  following  noon  The  Ledger  office  was  agi 
tated  as  it  hardly  would  have  been  had  Brooklyn  Bridge  fallen 
into  the  East  River,  or  the  stalest  mummy  in  the  Natural 
History  Museum  shown  stirrings  of  life.  A  word  was  passing 
from  eager  mouth  to  incredulous  ear. 

Banneker  had  resigned. 


CHAPTER  XV 

LOOKING  out  of  the  front  window,  into  the  decorum  of  Grove 
Street,  Mrs.  Brashear  could  hardly  credit  the  testimony  of  her 
glorified  eyes.  Could  the  occupant  of  the  taxi  indeed  be  Mr. 
Banneker  whom,  a  few  months  before  and  most  sorrowfully,  she 
had  sacrificed  to  the  stern  respectability  of  the  house  ?  And  was 
it  possible,  as  the  very  elegant  trunk  inscribed  "E.  B.  —  New 
York  City"  indicated,  that  he  was  coming  back  as  a  lodger? 
For  the  first  time  in  her  long  and  correct  professional  career, 
the  landlady  felt  an  unqualified  bitterness  in  the  fact  that  all  her 
rooms  were  occupied. 

The  occupant  of  the  taxi  jumped  out  and  ran  lightly  up  the 
steps. 

"  How  d'you  do,  Mrs.  Brashear.  Am  I  still  excommunicated  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Banneker !  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  If  I  could  tell  you 
how  often  I've  blamed  myself  — " 

"Let's  forget  all  that.  The  point  is  I've  come  back." 

"Oh,  dear!  I  do  hate  not  to  take  you  in.  But  there  isn't  a 
spot." 

"Who's  got  my  old  room?" 

"Mr.  Hainer." 

"Hainer?  Let's  turn  him  out." 

"I  would  in  a  minute,"  declared  the  ungrateful  landlady  to 
whom  Mr.  Hainer  had  always  been  a  model  lodger.  "But  the 
law—" 

"Oh,  I'll  fix  Hainer  if  you'll  fix  the  room." 

"How?"  asked  the  bewildered  Mrs.  Brashear. 

"The  room?  Just  as  it  used  to  be.  Bed,  table,  couple  of  chairs, 
bookshelf." 

"But  Mr.  Hainer's  things?" 

"Store  'em.  It'll  be  for  only  a  month." 

Leaving  his  trunk,  Banneker  sallied  forth  in  smiling  confi 
dence  to  accost  and  transfer  the  unsuspecting  occupant  of  his 
room.  To  achieve  this,  it  was  necessary  only  to  convince  the 


The  Vision  333 


object  of  the  scheme  that  the  incredible  offer  was  made  in 
good  faith;  an  apartment  in  the  "swell"  Regalton,  luxuri 
ously  furnished,  service  and  breakfast  included,  rent  free  for 
a  whole  month.  A  fairy-tale  for  the  prosaic  Hainer  to  be 
gloated  over  for  the  rest  of  his  life !  Very  quietly,  for  this  was 
part  of  the  bargain,  the  middle-aged  accountant  moved  to  his 
new  glories  and  Banneker  took  his  old  quarters.  It  was  all  ac 
complished  that  evening.  The  refurnishing  was  finished  on  the 
following  day. 

"But  what  are  you  doing  it  for,  if  I  may  DC  so  bold,  Mr. 
Banneker?"  asked  the  landlady. 

"Peace,  quiet,  and  work,"  he  answered  gayly.  "Just  to  be 
where  nobody  can  find  me,  while  I  do  a  job." 

Here,  as  in  the  old,  jobless  days,  Banneker  settled  down  to  con 
centrated  and  happy  toil.  Always  a  creature  of  Spartan  self- 
discipline  in  the  matter  of  work,  he  took  on,  in  this  quiet  and 
remote  environment,  new  energies.  Miss  Westlake,  recipient  of 
the  output  as  it  came  from  the  hard-driven  pen,  was  secretly 
disquieted.  Could  any  human  being  maintain  such  a  pace  with 
out  collapse  ?  Day  after  day,  the  devotee  of  the  third-floor-f ront 
rose  at  seven,  breakfasted  from  a  thermos  bottle  and  a  tin  box, 
and  set  upon  his  writing;  lunched  hastily  around  the  corner, 
returned  with  armfuls  of  newspapers  which  he  skimmed  as  a 
preliminary  to  a  second  long  bout  with  his  pen ;  allowed  himself 
an  hour  for  dinner,  and  came  back  to  resume  the  never-ending 
task.  As  in  the  days  of  the  "Eban"  sketches,  now  on  the  press 
for  book  publication,  it  was  write,  rewrite,  and  re-rewrite,  the 
typed  sheets  coming  back  to  Miss  Westlake  amended,  interlined, 
corrected,  but  always  successively  shortened  and  simplified. 
Profitable,  indeed,  for  the  solicitous  little  typist ;  but  she  ven 
tured,  after  a  fortnight  of  it,  to  remonstrate  on  the  score  of  ordi 
nary  prudence.  Banneker  laughed,  though  he  was  touched,  too, 
by  her  interest. 

"I'm  indestructible,"  he  assured  her.  "But  next  week  I  shall 
run  around  outside  a  little." 

"You  must,"  she  insisted. 

"Field-work,  I  believe  they  call  it.  The  Elysian  Fields  of 


334  Success 

Manhattan  Island.  Perhaps  you'll  come  with  me  sometimes  and 
see  that  I  attend  properly  to  my  recreation." 

Curiosity  as  well  as  a  mere  personal  interest  prompted  her  to 
accept.  She  did  not  understand  the  purpose  of  these  strange  and 
vivid  writings  committed  to  her  hands,  so  different  from  any  of 
the  earlier  of  Mr.  Banneker's  productions ;  so  different,  indeed, 
from  anything  that  she  had  hitherto  seen  in  any  print.  Nor  did 
she  derive  full  enlightenment  from  her  Elysian  journeys  with 
the  writer.  They  seemed  to  be  casual  if  not  aimless.  The  pair 
traveled  about  on  street-cars,  L  trains,  Fifth  Avenue  buses, 
dined  in  queer,  crowded  restaurants,  drank  in  foreign-appearing 
beer-halls,  went  to  meetings,  to  Cooper  Union  forums,  to  the 
Art  Gallery,  the  Aquarium,  the  Museum  of  Natural  History,  to 
dances  in  East-Side  halls :  and  everywhere,  by  virtue  of  his  easy 
and  graceful  good-fellowship,  Banneker  picked  up  acquaint 
ances,  entered  into  their  discussions,  listened  to  their  opinions 
and  solemn  dicta,  agreeing  or  controverting  with  equal  good- 
humor,  and  all,  one  might  have  carelessly  supposed,  in  the  idlest 
spirit  of  a  light-minded  Haroun  al  Raschid. 

"What  is  it  all  about,  if  you  don't  mind  telling?"  asked  his 
companion  as  he  bade  her  good-night  early  one  morning. 

"To  find  what  people  naturally  talk  about,"  was  the  ready 
answer. 

'And  then?" 

'To  talk  with  them  about  what  interests  them.  In  print." 

'Then  it  isn't  Elysian-fielding  at  all." 

'No.  It's  work.  Hard  work." 

'  And  what  do  you  do  after  it  ?  " 

'Oh,  sit  up  and  write  for  a  while." 

"You'll  break  down." 

"Oh,  no!  It's  good  for  me." 

And,  indeed,  it  was  better  for  him  than  the  alternative  of  try 
ing  to  sleep  without  the  anodyne  of  complete  exhaustion.  For 
again,  his  hours  were  haunted  by  the  not- to-be-laid  spirit  of  lo 
Welland.  As  in  those  earlier  days  when,  with  hot  eyes  and  set 
teeth,  he  had  sent  up  his  nightly  prayer  for  deliverance  from  the 
powers  of  the  past  — 


The  Vision  335 


"Heaven  shield  and  keep  us  free 
From  the  wizard,  Memory 
And  his  cruel  necromancies!" — 

she  came  back  to  her  old  sway  over  his  soul,  and  would  not  be 
exorcised.  —  So  he  drugged  his  brain  against  her  with  the  opiate 
of  weariness. 

Three  of  his  four  weeks  had  passed  when  Banneker  began  to 
whistle  at  his  daily  stent.  Thereafter  small  boys,  grimy  with 
printer's  ink,  called  occasionally,  received  instructions  and  de 
parted,  and  there  emanated  from  his  room  the  clean  and  bitter 
smell  of  paste,  and  the  clip  of  shears.  Despite  all  these  new 
activities,  the  supply  of  manuscript  for  Miss  Westlake's  type 
writer  never  failed.  One  afternoon  Banneker  knocked  at  the 
door,  asked  her  if  she  thought  she  could  take  dictation  direct, 
and  on  her  replying  doubtfully  that  she  could  try,  transferred 
her  and  her  machine  to  his  den,  which  was  littered  with  news 
papers,  proof-sheets,  and  foolscap.  Walking  to  and  fro  with  a 
sheet  of  the  latter  inscribed  with  a  few  notes  in  his  hand,  the 
hermit  proceeded  to  deliver  himself  to  the  briskly  clicking  writ 
ing  machine. 

"Three-em  dash,"  said  he  at  the  close.  "That  seemed  to  go 
fairly  well." 

"Are  you  training  me?"  asked  Miss  Westlake. 

"  No.  I'm  training  myself.  It's  easier  to  write,  but  it's  quicker 
to  talk.  Some  day  I'm  going  to  be  really  busy"  —  Miss  West- 
lake  gasped  —  "and  time-saving  will  be  important.  Shall  we  try 
it  again  to-morrow?" 

She  nodded.  "I  could  brush  up  my  shorthand  and  take  it 
quicker." 

"Do  you  know  shorthand?"  He  looked  at  her  contempla 
tively.  "Would  you  care  to  take  a  regular  position,  paying 
rather  better  than  this  casual  work?" 

"With  you?"  asked  Miss  Westlake  in  a  tone  which  consti 
tuted  a  sufficient  acceptance. 

"Yes.  Always  supposing  that  I  land  one  myself.  I'm  in  a  big 
gamble,  and  these,"  he  swept  a  hand  over  the  littered  accumula 
tions,  "are  my  cards.  If  they're  good  enough,  I'll  win." 


336  Success 

"They  are  good  enough,"  said  Miss  Westlake  with  simple  faith. 

"I'll  know  to-morrow,"  replied  Banneker. 

For  a  young  man,  jobless,  highly  unsettled  of  prospects,  the 
ratio  of  whose  debts  to  his  assets  was  inversely  to  what  it  should 
have  been,  Banneker  presented  a  singularly  care-free  aspect 
when,  at  ii  A.M.  of  a  rainy  morning,  he  called  at  Mr.  Tertius 
Marrineal's  Fifth  Avenue  house,  bringing  with  him  a  suitcase 
heavily  packed.  Mr.  Marrineal's  personal  Jap  took  over  the 
burden  and  conducted  it  and  its  owner  to  a  small  rear  room  at 
the  top  of  the  house.  Banneker  apprehended  at  the  first  glance 
that  this  was  a  room  for  work.  Mr.  Marrineal,  rising  from  be 
hind  a  broad,  glass-topped  table  with  his  accustomed  amiable 
smile,  also  looked  workmanlike. 

"You  have  decided  to  come  with  us,  I  hope,"  said  he  pleas 
antly  enough,  yet  with  a  casual  politeness  which  might  have 
been  meant  to  suggest  a  measure  of  indifference.  Banneker  at 
once  caught  the  note  of  bargaining. 

"If  you  think  my  ideas  are  worth  my  price,"  he  replied. 

"Let's  have  the  ideas." 

"No  trouble  to  show  goods,"  Banneker  said,  unclasping  the 
suitcase.  He  preferred  to  keep  the  talk  in  light  tone  until  his 
time  came.  From  the  case  he  extracted  two  close-packed  piles  of 
news-print,  folded  in  half. 

"Coals  to  Newcastle,"  smiled  Marrineal.  "These  seem  to  be 
copies  of  The  Patriot." 

"Not  exact  copies.  Try  this  one."  Selecting  an  issue  at  ran 
dom  he  passed  it  to  the  other. 

Marrineal  went  into  it  carefully,  turning  from  the  front  page 
to  the  inside,  and  again  farther  in  the  interior,  without  comment. 
Nor  did  he  speak  at  once  when  he  came  to  the  editorial  page. 
But  he  glanced  up  at  Banneker  before  settling  down  to  read. 

"Very  interesting,"  he  said  presently,  in  a  non-committal 
manner.  "  Have  you  more  ?" 

Silently  Banneker  transferred  to  the  table-top  the  remainder 
of  the  suitcase's  contents.  Choosing  half  a  dozen  at  random, 
Marrineal  turned  each  inside  out  and  studied  the  editorial  col 
umns.  His  expression  did  not  in  any  degree  alter. 


The  Vision  337 

"You  have  had  these  editorials  set  up  in  type  to  suit  yourself, 
I  take  it,"  he  observed  after  twenty  minutes  of  perusal;  "and 
have  pasted  them  into  the  paper,  "j 

"Exactly." 

"  Why  the  double-column  measure  ?  " 

"More  attractive  to  the  eye.  It  stands  out." 

"And  the  heavy  type  for  the  same  reason?" 

"Yes.  I  want  to  make  'em  just  as  easy  to  read  as  possible." 

"They're  easy  to  read,"  admitted  the  other.  "Are  they  all 
yours?" 

"Mine  — and  others'." 

Marrineal  looked  a  bland  question.  Banneker  answered  it. 

"I've  been  up  and  down  in  the  highways  and  the  low-ways, 
Mr.  Marrineal,  taking  those  editorials  from  the  speech  of  the 
ordinary  folk  who  talk  about  their  troubles  and  their  pleasures." 

"I  see.  Straight  from  the  throbbing  heart  of  the  people. 
Jones-in- the-street-car. " 

"And  Mrs.  Jones.  Don't  forget  her.  She'll  read  'em." 

"If  she  doesn't,  it  won't  be  because  they  don't  bid  for  her 
interest.  Here's  this  one,  'Better  Cooking  Means  Better  Hus 
bands:  Try  It.'  That's  the  argumentum  ad  feminam  with  a 
vengeance." 

"Yes.  I  picked  that  up  from  a  fat  old  party  who  was  advising 
a  thin  young  wife  at  a  fish-stall.  'Give'm  his  food  right  an'  he'll 
come  home  to  it,  'stid  o'  workin'  the  free  lunch.' " 

"Here  are  two  on  the  drink  question.  'Next  Time  Ask  the 
Barkeep  Why  He  Doesn't  Drink,'  and,  'Mighty  Elephants  Like 
Rum  —  and  Are  Chained  Slaves.' " 

"You'll  find  more  moralizing  on  booze  if  you  look  farther. 
It's  one  of  the  subjects  they  talk  most  about." 

"'The  Sardine  is  Dead:  Therefore  More  Comfortable  Than 
You,  Mr.  Straphanger,'"  read  Marrineal. 

"  Go  up  in  the  rush-hour  L  any  day  and  you'll  hear  that  edi 
torial  with  trimmings." 

"And  'Mr.  Flynn  Owes  You  a  Yacht  Ride'  is  of  the  same  or 
der,  I  suppose." 

"Yes.  If  it  had  been  practicable,  I'd  have  had  some  insets 


338  Success 

with  that:  a  picture  of  Flynn,  a  cut  of  his  new  million-dollar 
yacht,  and  a  table  showing  the  twenty  per  cent  dividends  that 
the  City  Illuminating  Company  pays  by  over-taxing  Jones  on 
his  lighting  and  heating.  That  would  almost  tell  the  story  with 
out  comment." 

"I  see.  Still  making  it  easy  for  them  to  read." 

Marrineal  ran  over  a  number  of  other  captions,  sensational, 
personal,  invocative,  and  always  provocative:  "Man,  Why 
Hasn't  Your  Wife  Divorced  You?"  "John  L.  Sullivan,  the 
Great  Unknown."  "  Why  Has  the  Ornithorhyncus  Got  a  Beak  ?  " 
"  If  YouMust  Sell  Your  Vote,  Ask  a  Fair  Price  For  It."  "  Mustn't 
Play,  You  Kiddies:  It's  a  Crime:  Ask  Judge  Croban."  "So 
crates,  Confucius,  Buddha,  Christ;  All  Dead,  But  — !!!" 
"The  Inventor  of  Goose-Plucking  Was  the  First  Politician. 
They're  At  It  Yet."  "How  Much  Would  You  Pay  a  Man  to 
Think  For  You?"  "Air  Doesn't  Cost  Much:  Have  You  Got 
Enough  to  Breathe?" 

"All  this,"  said  the  owner  of  The  Patriot,  "is  taken  from  what 
people  talk  and  think  about?" 

"Yes." 

"Doesn't  some  of  it  reach  out  into  the  realm  of  what  Mr. 
Banneker  thinks  they  ought  to  talk  and  think  about?'" 

Banneker  laughed.  "Discovered!  Oh,  I  won't  pretend  but 
what  I  propose  to  teach  'em  thinking." 

"If  you  can  do  that  and  make  them  think  our  way  — " 

"'Give  me  place  for  my  fulcrum,'  said  Archimedes." 

"  But  that's  an  editorial  you  won't  write  very  soon.  One  more 
detail.  You've  thrown  up  words  and  phrases  into  capital  letters 
all  through  for  emphasis.  I  doubt  whether  that  will  do." 

"Why  not?" 

"Haven't  you  shattered  enough  traditions  without  that? 
The  public  doesn't  want  to  be  taught  with  a  pointer.  I'm  afraid 
that's  rather  too  much  of  an  innovation." 

"No  innovation  at  all.  In  fact,  it's  adapted  plagiarism." 

"From  what?" 

"Harper's  Monthly  of  the  seventy's.  I  used  to  have  some 
odd  volumes  in  my  little  library.  There  was  a  department 


The  Vision  339 


of  funny  anecdote;  and  the  point  of  every  joke,  lest  some 
obtuse  reader  should  overlook  it,  was  printed  in  italics.  That," 
chuckled  Banneker,  "was  in  the  days  when  we  used  to  twit  the 
English  with  lacking  a  sense  of  humor.  However,  the  method 
has  its  advantages.  It's  fool-proof.  Therefore  I  helped  myself 
to  it." 

"Then  you're  aiming  at  the  weak-minded?" 

"At  anybody  who  can  assimilate  simple  ideas  plaimy  ex 
pressed,"  declared  the  other  positively.  "There  ought  to  be  four 
million  of  'em  within  reaching  distance  of  The  Patriot's  presses." 

"Your  proposition  —  though  you  haven't  made  any  as  yet  — 
is  that  we  lead  our  editorial  page  daily  with  matter  such  as  this. 
Am  I  correct?" 

"No.  Make  a  clean  sweep  of  the  present  editorials.  Substi 
tute  mine.  One  a  day  will  be  quite  enough  for  their  minds  to 
work  on." 

"  But  that  won't  fill  the  page,"  objected  the  proprietor. 

"Cartoon.  Column  of  light  comment.  Letters  from  readers. 
That  will,"  returned  Banneker  with  severe  brevity. 

"It  might  be  worth  trying,"  mused  Marrineal. 

"It  might  be  worth,  to  a  moribund  paper,  almost  anything." 
The  tone  was  significant. 

"Then  you  are  prepared  to  join  our  staff?" 

"On  suitable  terms." 

"I  had  thought  of  offering  you,"  Marrineal  paused  for  better 
effect,  "one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  week." 

Banneker  was  annoyed.  That  was  no  more  than  he  could  earn, 
with  a  little  outside  work,  on  The  Ledger.  He  had  thought  of 
asking  two  hundred  and  fifty.  Now  he  said  promptly : 

"Those  editorials  are  worth  three  hundred  a  week  to  any 
paper.  As  a  starter,"  he  added. 

A  pained  and  patient  smile  overspread  Marrineal's  regular 
features.  "The  Patriot's  leader-writer  draws  a  hundred  at 
present." 

"I  dare  say." 

"The  whole  page  costs  barely  three  hundred." 

"It  is  overpaid." 


340  Success 

"For  a  comparative  novice,"  observed  Marrineal  without 
rancor,  "you  do  not  lack  self-confidence." 

"There  are  the  goods,"  said  Banneker  evenly.  "It  is  for  you 
to  decide  whether  they  are  worth  the  price  asked." 

"And  there's  where  the  trouble  is,"  confessed  Marrineal.  "I 
don't  know.  They  might  be." 

Banneker  made  his  proposition.  "You  spoke  of  my  being  a 
novice.  I  admit  the  weak  spot.  I  want  more  experience.  You 
can  afford  to  try  this  out  for  six  months.  In  fact,  you  can't  afford 
not  to.  Something  has  got  to  be  done  with  The  Patriot,  and  soon. 
It's  losing  ground  daily." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  returned  Marrineal. 

"Then  the  news-stands  and  circulation  lists  are  mistaken, 
too,"  retorted  the  other.  "Would  you  care  to  see  my  figures?" 

Marrineal  waved  away  the  suggestion  with  an  easy  gesture 
which  surrendered  the  point. 

"Very  well.  I'm  backing  the  new  editorial  idea  to  get  circu 
lation." 

"  With  my  money,"  pointed  out  Marrineal. 

"  I  can't  save  you  the  money.  But  I  can  spread  it  for  you, 
that  three  hundred  dollars." 

"How,  spread  it?" 

"Charge  half  to  editorial  page:  half  to  the  news  depart 
ment." 

"On  account  of  what  services  to  the  news  department?" 

"  General.  That  is  where  I  expect  to  get  my  finishing  experi 
ence.  I've  had  enough  reporting.  Now  I'm  after  the  special 
work ;  a  little  politics,  a  little  dramatic  criticism ;  a  touch  of 
sports;  perhaps  some  book-reviewing  and  financial  writing. 
And,  of  course,  an  apprenticeship  in  the  Washington  office." 

"Haven't  you  forgotten  the  London  correspondence?" 

Whether  or  not  this  was  sardonic,  Banneker  did  not  trouble  to 
determine.  "Too  far  away,  and  not  time  enough,"  he  answered. 
"Later,  perhaps,  I  can  try  that." 

"  And  while  you  are  doing  all  these  things  who  is  to  carry  out 
the  editorial  idea?" 

"lam." 


The  Vision  341 


Marrineal  stared.  "Both?  At  the  same  time ?" 

"Yes." 

"No  living  man  could  do  it." 

"  I  can  do  it.  I've  proved  it  to  myself." 

"How  and  where?" 

"Since  I  last  saw  you.  Now  that  I've  got  the  hang  of  it,  I 
can  do  an  editorial  in  the  morning,  another  in  the  afternoon,  a 
third  in  the  evening.  Two  and  a  half  days  a  week  will  turn  the 
trick.  That  leaves  the  rest  of  the  time  for  the  other  special  jobs." 

"You  won't  live  out  the  six  months." 

"Insure  my  life  if  you  like,"  laughed  Banneker.  "Work  will 
never  kill  me." 

Marrineal,  sitting  with  inscrutable  face  turned  half  away  from 
his  visitor,  was  beginning,  "If  I  meet  you  on  the  salary,"  when 
Banneker  broke  in : 

"Wait  until  you  hear  the  rest.  I'm  asking  that  for  six  months 
only.  Thereafter  I  propose  to  drop  the  non-editorial  work  and 
with  it  the  salary." 

"With  what  substitute?" 

"A  salary  based  upon  one  cent  a  week  for  every  unit  of  circu 
lation  put  on  from  the  time  the  editorials  begin  publication." 

"It  sounds  innocent,"  remarked  Marrineal.  "It  isn't  as  inno 
cent  as  it  sounds,"  he  added  after  a  penciled  reckoning  on  the 
back  of  an  envelope.  "In  case  we  increase  fifty  thousand,  you 
will  be  drawing  twenty-five  thousand  a  year." 

"  Well  ?  Won't  it  be  worth  the  money  ?  " 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  admitted  Marrineal  dubiously.  "Of 
course  fifty  thousand  in  six  months  is  an  extreme  assumption. 
Suppose  the  circulation  stands  still?" 

"Then  I  starve.  It's  a  gamble.  But  it  strikes  me  that  I'm 
giving  the  odds." 

"Can  you  amuse  yourself  for  an  hour?"  asked  Marrineal 
abruptly. 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  Banneker  hesitantly.  "Perhaps  you'd 
turn  me  loose  in  your  library.  I'd  find  something  to  put  in  the 
time  on  there." 
"Not  very  much,  I'm  afraid,"  replied  his  host  apologetically. 


342  Success 

"I'm  of  the  low-brow  species  in  my  reading  tastes,  or  else  rather 
severely  practical.  You'll  find  some  advertising  data  that  may 
interest  you,  however." 

From  the  hour  —  whicn  grew  to  an  hour  and  a  half  —  spent 
in  the  library,  Banneker  sought  to  improve  his  uncertain  con 
ception  of  his  prospective  employer's  habit  and  trend  of  mind. 
The  hope  of  revelation  was  not  borne  out  by  the  reading  matter 
at  hand.  Most  of  it  proved  to  be  technical. 

When  he  returned  to  Marrineal's  den,  he  found  Russell 
Edmonds  with  the  host. 

"Well,  son,  you've  turned  the  trick,"  was  the  veteran's  greet 
ing. 

"You've  read  'em?"  asked  Banneker,  and  Marrineai  -was 
shrewd  enough  to  note  the  instinctive  shading  of  manner  when 
expert  spoke  to  expert.  He  was  an  outsider,  being  merely  the 
owner.  It  amused  him. 

"Yes.  They're  dam' good." 

"Aren't  they  dam'  good?"  returned  Banneker  eagerly. 

"They'll  save  the  day  if  anything  can." 

"Precisely  my  own  humble  opinion  if  a  layman  may  speak," 
put  in  Marrineai.  "Mr.  Banneker,  shall  I  have  the  contract 
drawn  up  ?  " 

"Not  on  my  account.  I  don't  need  any.  If  I  haven't  made 
myself  so  essential  after  the  six  months  that  you  have  to  keep  me 
on,  I'll  want  to  quit." 

"Still  in  the  gambling  mood,"  smiled  Marrineai. 

The  two  practical  journalists  left,  making  an  appointment  to 
spend  the  following  morning  with  Marrineai  in  planning  policy 
and  methods.  Banneker  went  back  to  his  apartment  and  wrote 
Miss  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  all  about  it,  in  exultant  mood. 

Brains  to  let!  But  I've  got  my  price.  And  I'll  get  a  higher  one:  the 
highest,  if  I  can  hold  out.  It's  all  due  to  you.  If  you  hadn't  kept  my 
mind  turned  to  things  worth  while  in  the  early  days  at  Manzanita, 
with  your  music  and  books  and  your  taste  for  all  that  is  fine,  I'd  have 
fallen  into  a  rut.  It's  success,  the  first  real  taste.  I  like  it.  I  love  it. 
And  I  owe  it  all  to  you. 


The  Vision  343 

Camilla  Van  Arsdale,  yearning  over  the  boyish  outburst, 
smiled  and  sighed  and  mused  and  was  vaguely  afraid,  with 
quasi-maternal  fears.  She,  too,  had  had  her  taste  of  success; 
a  marvelous  stimulant,  bubbling  with  inspiration  and  incite 
ment.  But  for  all  except  the  few  who  are  strong  and  steadfast, 
there  lurks  beneath  the  effervescence  a  subtle  poison. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

NOT  being  specially  gifted  with  originality  of  either  thought  or 
expression,  Mr.  Herbert  Cressey  stopped  Banneker  outside  of 
his  apartment  with  the  remark  made  and  provided  for  the 
delayed  reunion  of  frequent  companions:  "Well  I  thought  you 
were  dead ! " 

By  way  of  keeping  to  the  same  level  Banneker  replied  cheer 
fully  :  "I'm  not." 

"Where've  you  been  aU  this  while?" 

"Working." 

"Where  were  you  Monday  last?  Didn't  see  you  at  Sherry's." 

"Working." 

"And  the  week  before?  You  weren't  at  The  Retreat." 

"Working,  also." 

"And  the  week  before  that?  Nobody's  seen  so  much  — " 

"Working.  Working.  Working." 

"I  stopped  in  at  your  roost  and  your  new  man  told  me  you 
were  away  and  might  be  gone  indefinitely.  Funny  chap,  your 
new  man.  Mysterious  sort  of  manner.  Where'd  you  pick  him 
up?" 

"Oh,  Lord!  Hainer!"  exclaimed  Banneker  appreciatively. 
"Well,  he  told  the  truth." 

"You  look  pulled  down,  too,  by  Jove !"  commented  Cressey, 
concern  on  his  sightly  face.  "Ridin'  for  a  fall,  aren't  you?" 

"Only  for  a  test.  I'm  going  to  let  up  next  week." 

"Tell  you  what,"  proffered  Cressey.  "Let's  do  a  day  together. 
Say  Wednesday,  eh  ?  I'm  giving  a  little  dinner  that  night.  And, 
oh,  I  say !  By  the  way  —  no :  never  mind  that.  You'll  come, 
won't  you?  It'll  be  at  The  Retreat." 

"Yes:  I'll  come.  I'll  be  playing  polo  that  afternoon." 

"Not  if  Jim  Maitland  sees  you  first.  He's  awfully  sore  on  you 
for  not  turning  up  to  practice.  Had  a  place  for  you  on  the 
second  team." 

"Don't  want  it.  I'm  through  with  polo." 

"Ban!  What  the  devil  — " 


The  Vision  345 

"Work,  I  tell  you.  Next  season  I  may  be  able  to  play.  For 
the  present  I'm  off  everything." 

"Have  they  made  you  all  the  editors  of  The  Ledger  in  one?" 

"I'm  off  The  Ledger,  too.  Give  you  all  the  painful  details 
Wednesday.  Fare-you-well." 

General  disgust  and  wrath  pervaded  the  atmosphere  of  the 
polo  field  when  Banneker,  making  his  final  appearance  on 
Wednesday,  broke  the  news  to  Maitland,  Densmore,  and  the 
others. 

"Just  as  you  were  beginning  to  know  one  end  of  your  stick 
from  the  other,"  growled  the  irate  team  captain. 

Banneker  played  well  that  afternoon  because  he  played  reck 
lessly.  Lack  of  practice  sometimes  works  out  that  way;  as  if 
luck  took  charge  of  a  man's  play  and  carried  him  through. 
Three  of  the  five  goals  made  by  the  second  team  fell  to  his 
mallet,  and  he  left  the  field  heartily  cursed  on  all  sides  for  his 
recalcitrancy  in  throwing  himself  away  on  work  when  the  sport  of 
sports  called  him.  Regretful,  yet  well  pleased  with  himself,  he 
had  his  bath,  his  one,  lone  drink,  and  leisurely  got  into  his 
evening  clothes.  Cressey  met  him  at  the  entry  to  the  guest's 
lounge  giving  on  the  general  dining-room. 

"  Damned  if  you're  not  a  good-lookin'  chap,  Ban ! "  he  declared 
with  something  like  envy  in  his  voice.  "Thinning  down  a  bit 
gives  you  a  kind  of  look.  No  wonder  Mertoun  puts  in  his  best 
licks  on  your  clothes." 

"Which  reminds  me  that  I've  neglected  even  Mertoun," 
smiled  Banneker. 

"  Go  ahead  in,  will  you?  I've  got  to  bone  some  feller  for  a  fresh 
collar.  My  cousin's  in  there  somewhere.  Mrs.  Rogerson  Lyle 
from  Philadelphia.  She's  a  pippin  in  pink.  Go  in  and  tell  on 
yourself,  and  order  her  a  cocktail." 

Seeking  to  follow  the  vague  direction,  Banneker  turned  to  the 
left  and  entered  a  dim  side  room.  No  pippin  in  pink  disclosed 
herself.  But  a  gracious  young  figure  in  black  was  bending  over  a 
table  looking  at  a  magazine,  the  long,  free  curve  of  her  back 
turned  toward  him.  He  advanced.  The  woman  said  in  a  soft 
voice  that  shook  him  to  the  depths  of  his  soul : 


346  Success 

"  Back  so  soon,  Archie  ?  Want  Sis  to  fix  your  tie  ?  " 

She  turned  then  and  said  easily :  "Oh,  I  thought  you  were  my 
brother.  . . .  How  do  you  do,  Ban  ?  " 

lo  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  hardly  knew  whether  or  not 
he  took  it  until  he  felt  the  close,  warm  pressure  of  her  fingers. 
Never  before  had  he  so  poignantly  realized  that  innate  splendor 
of  femininity  that  was  uniquely  hers,  a  quality  more  potent  than 
any  mere  beauty.  Her  look  met  his  straight  and  frankly,  but  he 
heard  the  breath  flutter  at  her  lips,  and  he  thought  to  read  in  her 
eyes  a  question,  a  hunger,  and  a  delight.  His  voice  was  under 
rigid  control  as  he  said : 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  to  be  here,  Mrs.  Eyre." 

"I  knew  that  you  were,"  she  retorted.  "And  I'm  not  Mrs. 
Eyre,  please.  I'm  lo." 

He  shook  his  head.  "That  was  in  another  world." 

"  Oh,  Ban,  Ban !"  she  said.  Her  lips  seemed  to  cherish  the  name 
that  they  gave  forth  so  softly.  "Don't  be  a  silly  Ban.  It's  the 
same  world,  only  older ;  a  million  years  older,  I  think.  ...  I 
came  here  only  because  you  were  coming.  Are  you  a  million  years 
older,  Ban?" 

"Unfair,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"I'm  never  unfair.  I  play  the  game."  Her  little,  firm  chin 
went  up  defiantly.  Yes:  she  was  more  lovely  and  vivid  and 
desirable  than  in  the  other  days.  Or  was  it  only  the  unstifled 
yearning  in  his  heart  that  made  her  seem  so?  "Have  you  missed 
me?"  she  asked  simply. 

He  made  no  answer. 

"I've  missed  you."  She  walked  over  to  the  window  and  stood 
looking  out  into  the  soft  and  breathing  murk  of  the  night.  When 
she  came  back  to  him,  her  manner  had  changed.  "Fancy  finding 
you  here  of  all  places !"  she  said  gayly. 

"It  isn't  such  a  bad  place  to  be,"  he  said,  relieved  to  meet  her 
on  the  new  ground. 

"It's  a  goal,"  she  declared.  "Half  of  the  aspiring  gilded  youth 
of  the  city  would  give  their  eye-teeth  to  make  it.  How  did  you 
manage?" 

"I  didn't  manage.  It  was  managed  for  me.  Old  Poultney 
Masters  put  me  in." 


The  Vision  347 

"Well,  don't  scowl  at  me!  For  a  reporter,  you  know,  it's 
rather  an  achievement  to  get  into  The  Retreat." 

"I  suppose  so.  Though  I'm  not  a  reporter  now." 

"Well,  for  any  newspaper  man.  What  are  you,  by  the 
way?" 

"A  sort  of  all-round  experimental  editor." 

"I  hadn't  heard  of  that,"  said  lo,  with  a  quickness  which 
apprised  him  that  she  had  been  seeking  information  about  him. 

"Nobody  has.  It's  only  just  happened." 

"And  I'm  the  first  to  know  of  it?  That's  as  it  should  be,"  she 
asserted  calmly.  "You  shall  tell  me  all  about  it  at  dinner." 

"Am  I  taking  you  in?" 

"No :  you're  taking  in  my  cousin,  Esther  Forbes.  But  I'm  on  ' 
your  left.  Be  nice  to  me." 

Others  came  in  and  joined  them.  Banneker,  his  inner  brain  a 
fiery  whorl,  though  the  outer  convolutions  which  he  used  for 
social  purposes  remained  quite  under  control,  drifted  about 
making  himself  agreeable  and  approving  himself  to  his  host  as  an 
asset  of  the  highest  value.  At  dinner,  sprightly  and  mischievous 
Miss  Forbes,  who  recalled  their  former  meeting  at  Sherry's, 
found  him  wholly  delightful  and  frankly  told  him  so.  He  talked 
little  with  lo ;  but  he  was  conscious  to  his  nerve-ends  of  the  sweet 
warmth  of  her  so  near  him.  To  her  questions  about  his  develop 
ing  career  he  returned  vague  replies  or  generalizations. 

"You're  not  drinking  anything,"  she  said,  as  the  third  course 
came  on.  "Have  you  renounced  the  devil  and  all  his  works?"  , 
There  was  an  impalpable  stress  upon  the  "all." 

His  answer,  composed  though  it  was  in  tone,  quite  satisfied 
her.  "I  wouldn't  dare  touch  drink  to-night." 

After  dinner  there  was  faro  bank.  Banneker  did  not  play.  lo, 
after  a  run  of  indifferent  luck,  declared  herself  tired  of  the  game 
and  turned  to  him. 

"Take  me  out  somewhere  where  there  is  air  to  breathe." 

They  stood  together  on  the  stone  terrace,  blown  lightly  upon 
by  a  mist-ladden  breeze. 

"It  ought  to  be  a  great  drive  of  rain,  filling  the  world,"  said  lo 
in  her  voice  of  dreams.  "The  roar  of  waters  above  us  and  below, 
and  the  glorious  sense  of  being  in  the  grip  of  a  resistless  cur- 


348  Success 

rent We're  all  in  the  grip  of  resistless  currents.  D'you  believe 

that  yet,  Ban?" 

"No." 

"Skeptic!  You  want  to  work  out  your  own  fate.  You  *  strive 
to  see,  to  choose  your  path.'  Well,  you've  climbed.  Is  it  success, 
Ban?" 

"  It  will  be." 

"And  have  you  reached  the  Mountains  of  Fulfillment?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "One  never  does,  climbing  alone." 

"Has  it  been  alone,  Ban?" 

"Yes." 

"Always?" 

"Always." 

"So  it  has  been  for  me  —  really.  No,"  she  added  swiftly; 
"don't  ask  me  questions.  Not  now.  I  want  to  hear  more  of 
your  new  venture." 

He  outlined  his  plan  and  hopes  for  The  Patriot. 

"It's  good,"  she  said  gravely.  "It's  power,  and  so  it's  danger. 
But  it's  good.. .  .Are  we  friends,  Ban?" 

"How  can  we  be!" 

"How  can  we  not  be !  You've  tried  to  drop  me  out  of  your 
life.  Oh,  I  know,  because  I  know  you  —  better  than  you  think. 
You'll  never  drop  me  out  of  your  life  again,"  she  murmured  with 
confident  wistfulness.  "Never,  Ban.. .  .Let's  go  in." 

Not  until  she  came  to  bid  him  good-night,  with  a  lingering 
handclasp,  her  palm  cleaving  to  his  like  the  reluctant  severance 
of  lips,  did  she  tell  him  that  she  was  going  away  almost  imme 
diately.  "But  I  had  to  make  sure  first  that  you  were  really  alive, 
and  still  Ban,"  she  said. 

It  was  many  months  before  he  saw  her  again. 


END  OF   PART   II 


PART  III 
FULFILLMENT 


PART  III 
FULFILLMENT 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  House  With  Three  Eyes  sent  forth  into  the  darkness  a 
triple  glow  of  hospitality.  Through  the  aloof  Chelsea  district 
street,  beyond  the  westernmost  L  structure,  came  taxicabs, 
hansoms,  private  autos,  to  discharge  at  the  central  door  men 
who  were  presently  revealed,  under  the  lucent  globe  above  the 
lintel,  to  be  for  the  most  part  silhouette  studies  in  the  black  of 
festal  tailoring  and  silk  hat  against  the  white  of  expansive  shirt- 
front.  Occasionally,  though  less  often,  one  of  the  doors  at  either 
flank  of  the  house,  also  overwatched  by  shining  orbs,  opened  to 
discharge  an  early  departure.  A  midnight  wayfarer,  pausing 
opposite  to  contemplate  this  inexplicable  grandeur  in  a  dingy 
neighborhood,  sought  enlightenment  from  the  passing  patrol 
man: 

"Wot's  doin'?  Swell  gamblin'  joint?  Huh?"  As  he  spoke  a 
huge,  silent  car  crept  swiftly  to  the  entry,  which  opened  to  swal 
low  up  two  bareheaded,  luxuriously  befurred  women,  with  their 
escorts.  The  curious  wayfarer  promptly  amended  his  query, 
though  not  for  the  better. 

"Naw!"  replied  the  policeman  with  scorn.  "That's  Mr. 
Banneker's  house." 

"Banneker?  Who's  Banneker?" 

With  augmented  contempt  the  officer  requested  the  latest 
quotations  on  clover  seed.  "He's  the  editor  of  The  Patriot,"  he 
vouchsafed.  "A  millionaire,  too,  they  say.  And  a  good  sport." 

"Givin'  a  party,  huh?" 

"Every  Saturday  night,"  answerea  ne  of  the  uniform  and 
night-stick,  who,  having  participated  below-stairs  in  the  refec 
tions  of  the  entertainment,  was  condescending  enough  to  be  in 
formative.  "Say,  the  swellest  folks  in  New  York  fall  over  them 
selves  to  get  invited  here." 


352  Success 

"  Why  ain't  he  on  Fi'th  Avenyah,  then  ?  "  demanded  the  other. 

"He  makes  the  Fi'th  Avenyah  bunch  come  to  him,"  explained 
the  policeman,  with  obvious  pride.  "Took  a  couple  of  these  old 
houses  on  long  lease,  knocked  out  the  walls,  built  'em  into  one, 
on  his  own  plan,  and,  say !  It's  a  pallus !  I  been  all  through  it." 

A  lithely  powerful  figure  took  the  tall  steps  of  the  house  three 
at  a  time,  and  turned,  under  the  light,  to  toss  away  a  cigar. 

"Cheest!"  exclaimed  the  wayfarer  in  tones  of  awe:  "that's 
K.  O.  Doyle,  the  middleweight,  ain't  it?" 

"Sure!  That's  nothin'.  If  you  was  to  get  inside  there  you'd 
bump  into  some  of  the  biggest  guys  in  town ;  a  lot  of  high-ups 
from  Wall  Street,  and  maybe  a  couple  of  these  professors  from 
Columbyah  College,  and  some  swell  actresses,  and  a  bunch  of 
high-brow  writers  and  painters,  and  a  dozen  dames  right  off  the 
head  of  the  Four  Hundred  list.  He  takes  'em,  all  kinds,  Mr. 
Banneker  does,  just  so  they're  something  He's  a  wonder." 

The  wayfarer  passed  on  to  his  oniony  boarding-house,  a  few 
steps  along,  deeply  marveling  at  the  irruption  of  magnificence 
into  the  neighborhood  in  the  brief  year  since  he  had  been  away. 

Equipages  continued  to  draw  up,  unload,  and  withdraw,  until 
twelve  thirty,  when,  without  so  much  as  a  preliminary  wink, 
the  House  shut  its  Three  Eyes.  A  scant  five  minutes  earlier, 
an  alert  but  tired-looking  man,  wearing  the  slouch  hat  of  the 
West  above  his  dinner  coat,  had  briskly  mounted  the  steps  and, 
after  colloquy  with  the  cautious,  black  guardian  of  the  door,  had 
been  admitted  to  a  side  room,  where  he  was  presently  accosted 
by  a  graying,  spare-set  guest  with  ruminative  eyes. 

"I  heard  about  this  show  by  accident,  and  wanted  in,"  ex 
plained  the  newcomer  in  response  to  the  other's  look  of  inquiry. 
"If  I  could  see  Banneker—" 

"It  will  be  some  little  time  before  you  can  see  him.  He's  at 
work." 

"But  this  is  his  party,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.  The  party  takes  care  of  itself  until  he  comes  down." 

"Oh;  does  it?  Well,  will  it  take  care  of  me?" 

"Are  you  a  friend  of  Mr.  Banneker's?" 

"  In  a  way.  In  fact,  I  might  claim  to  have  started  him  on  his 


Fulfillment  353 


career  of  newspaper  crime.  I'm  Gardner  of  the  Angelica  City 
Herald." 

"Ban  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  Take  off  your  things.  I  am 
Russell  Edmonds." 

He  led  the  way  into  a  spacious  and  beautiful  room,  filled  with 
the  composite  hum  of  voices  and  the  scent  of  half -hidden  flowers. 
The  Westerner  glanced  avidly  about  him,  noting  here  a  spoken 
name  familiar  in  print,  there  a  face  recognized  from  far-spread 
photographic  reproduction. 

"  Some  different  from  Ban's  shack  on  the  desert,"  he  muttered. 
"Hello!  Mr.  Edmonds,  who's  the  splendid-looking  woman  in 
brown  with  the  yellow  orchids,  over  there  in  the  seat  back  of  the 
palms?" 

Edmonds  leaned  forward  to  look.  "Royce  Melvin,  the  com 
poser,  I  believe.  I  haven't  met  her." 

"I  have,  then,"  returned  the  other,  as  the  guest  changed  her 
position,  fully  revealing  her  face.  "Tried  to  dig  some  informa 
tion  out  of  her  once.  Like  picking  prickly  pears  blindfold. 
That's  Camilla  Van  Arsdale.  What  a  coincidence  to  find  her 
here!" 

"No!  Camilla  Van  Arsdale?  You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you?  I 
want  to  speak  to  her.  Make  yourself  known  to  any  one  you  like 
the  looks  of.  That's  the  rule  of  the  house ;  no  introductions." 

He  walked  across  the  room,  made  his  way  through  the  cres 
cent  curving  about  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  and,  presenting  himself, 
was  warmly  greeted. 

"Let  me  take  you  to  Ban,"  he  said.  "He'll  want  to  see  you  at 
once." 

"But  won't  it  disturb  his  work?" 

"Nothing  does.  He  writes  with  an  open  door  and  a  shut 
brain." 

He  led  her  up  the  east  flight  of  stairs  and  down  a  long  hallway 
to  an  end  room  with  door  ajar,  notwithstanding  that  even  at  that 
distance  the  hum  of  voices  and  the  muffled  throbbing  of  the 
concert  grand  piano  from  below  were  plainly  audible.  Banne- 
ker's  voice,  regular,  mechanical,  desensitized  as  the  voices  of 
those  who  dictate  habitually  are  prone  to  become,  floated  out : 


354  Success 

"Quote  where  ignorance  is  bliss  'tis  folly  to  be  wise  end  quote 
comma  said  a  poet  who  was  also  a  cynic  period.  Many  poets  are 
comma  but  not  the  greatest  period.  Because  of  their  —  turn 
back  to  the  beginning  of  the  paragraph,  please,  Miss  Westlake." 

"I've  brought  up  an  old  friend,  Ban,"  announced  Edmonds, 
pushing  wide  the  door. 

Vaguely  smiling,  for  he  had  trained  himself  to  be  impervious  to 
interruptions,  the  editorializer  turned  in  his  chair.  Instantly  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and  caught  Miss  Van  Arsdale  by  both  hands. 

"Miss  Camilla!"  he  cried.  "I  thought  you  said  you  couldn't 
come." 

"I'm  defying  the  doctors,"  she  replied.  "They've  given  me 
so  good  a  report  of  myself  that  I  can  afford  to.  I'll  go  down  now 
and  wait  for  you." 

"  No ;  don't.  Sit  up  here  with  me  till  I  finish.  I  don't  want  to 
lose  any  of  you,"  said  he  affectionately. 

But  she  laughingly  refused,  declaring  that  he  would  be  through 
all  the  sooner  for  his  other  guests,  if  she  left  him. 

"See  that  she  meets  some  people,  Bop,"  Banneker  directed. 
"  Gaines  of  The  New  Era,  if  he's  here,  and  Betty  Raleigh,  and 
that  new  composer,  and  the  Junior  Masters." 

Edmonds  nodded,  and  escorted  her  downstairs.  Nicely  judg 
ing  the  time  when  Banneker  would  have  finished,  he  was  back 
in  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  stenographer  had  just  left. 

"What  a  superb  woman,  Ban!"  he  said.  "It's  small  wonder 
that  Enderby  lost  himself." 

Banneker  nodded.  "What  would  she  have  said  if  she  could 
know  that  you,  an  absolute  stranger,  had  been  the  means  of 
saving  her  from  a  terrific  scandal?  Gives  one  a  rather  shivery 
feeling  about  the  power  and  responsibility  of  the  press,  doesn't 
it?" 

"It  would  have  been  worse  than  murder,"  declared  the  vet 
eran,  with  so  much  feeling  that  his  friend  gave  him  a  grateful 
look.  "What's  she  doing  in  New  York?  Is  it  safe?" 

"  Came  on  to  see  a  specialist.  Yes ;  it's  all  right.  The  Enderbys 
are  abroad." 

"  I  see.  How  long  since  you'd  seen  her  ?  " 


Fulfillment  355 


"  Before  this  trip  ?  Last  spring,  when  I  took  a  fortnight  off." 

"You  went  clear  West,  just  to  see  her? " 

"Mainly.  Partly,  too,  to  get  back  to  the  restfulness  of  the 
place  where  I  never  had  any  troubles.  I've  kept  the  little  shack 
I  used  to  own ;  pay  a  local  chap  named  Mindle  to  keep  it  in  shape. 
So  I  just  put  in  a  week  of  quiet  there." 

"You're  a  queer  chap,  Ban.  And  a  loyal  one." 

"If  I  weren't  loyal  to  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  — "  said  Banneker, 
and  left  the  implication  unconcluded. 

"Another  friend  from  your  picturesque  past  is  down  below," 
said  Edmonds,  and  named  Gardner. 

"Lord  !  That  fellow  nearly  cost  me  my  life,  last  time  we  met," 
laughed  Banneker.  Then  his  face  altered.  Pain  drew  its  sharp 
lines  there,  pain  and  the  longing  of  old  memories  still  unassuaged. 
"Just  the  same,  I'll  be  glad  to  see  him." 

He  sought  out  the  Californian,  found  him  deep  in  talk  with 
Guy  Mallory  of  The  Ledger,  who  had  come  in  late,  gave  him 
hearty  greeting,  and  looked  about  for  Camilla  Van  Arsdale.  She 
was  supping  in  the  center  of  a  curiously  assorted  group,  part  of 
whom  remembered  the  old  romance  of  her  life,  and  part  of  whom 
had  identified  her,  by  some  chance,  as  Royce  Melvin,  the  com 
poser.  All  of  them  were  paying  court  to  her  charm  and  intelli 
gence.  She  made  a  place  beside  herself  for  Banneker. 

"We've  been  discussing  The  Patriot,  Ban,"  she  said,  "and  Mr. 
Gaines  has  embalmed  you,  as  an  editorial  writer,  in  the  amber  of 
one  of  his  best  epigrams." 

The  Great  Gaines  made  a  deprecating  gesture.  "My  little 
efforts  always  sound  better  when  I'm  not  present,"  he  protested. 

"To  be  the  subject  of  any  Gaines  epigram,  however  stinging, 
is  fame  in  itself,"  said  Banneker. 

"And  no  sting  in  this  one.  'Attic  salt  and  American  pep/" 
she  quoted.  "Isn't  it  truly  spicy?" 

Banneker  bowed  with  half-mocking  appreciation.  "I  fancy, 
though,  that  Mr.  Gaines  prefers  his  journalistic  egg  more  au 
naturel" 

"  Sometimes,"  admitted  the  most  famous  of  magazine  editors, 
"I  could  dispense  with  some  of  the  pep." 


356  Success 

"I  like  the  pep,  too,  Ban."  Betty  Raleigh,  looking  up  from  a 
seat  where  she  sat  talking  to  a  squat  and  sensual-looking  man,  a 
dweller  in  the  high  places  and  cool  serenities  of  advanced  mathe 
matics  whom  jocular-minded  Nature  had  misdowered  with  the 
face  of  a  satyr,  interposed  the  suave  candor  of  her  voice.  "I 
actually  lick  my  lips  over  your  editorials  even  where  I  least 
agree  with  them.  But  the  rest  of  the  paper —  Oh,  dear!  It 
screeches." 

"Modern  life  is  such  a  din  that  one  has  to  screech  to  be  heard 
above  it,"  said  Banneker  pleasantly. 

"  Isn't  it  the  newspapers  which  make  most  of  the  din,though  ?  " 
suggested  the  mathematician. 

"Shouting  against  each  other,"  said  Gaines. 

"Like  Coney  Island  barkers  for  rival  shows,"  put  in  Junior 
Masters. 

"Just  for  variety  how  would  it  do  to  try  the  other  tack  and 
practice  a  careful  but  significant  restraint?"  inquired  Betty. 

"Wouldn't  sell  a  ticket,"  declared  Banneker. 

"Still,  if  we  all  keep  on  yelling  in  the  biggest  type  and  hottest 
words  we  can  find,"  pointed  out  Edmonds,  "the  effect  will  pall." 

"  Perhaps  the  measure  of  success  is  in  finding  something  con 
stantly  more  strident  and  startling  than  the  other  fellow's 
war  whoop,"  surmised  Masters. 

"I  have  never  particularly  admired  the  steam  calliope  as  a 
form  of  expression,"  observed  Miss  Van  Arsdale. 

"Ah!"  said  the  actress,  smiling,  "but  Royce  Melvin  doesn't 
make  music  for  circuses." 

"And  a  modern  newspaper  is  a  circus,"  pronounced  the 
satyr-like  scholar. 

"Three-ring  variety;  all  the  latest  stunts;  list  to  the  voice  of 
the  ballyhoo,"  said  Masters. 

"Panem  el  circenses"  pursued  the  mathematician,  pleased 
with  his  simile,  "  to  appease  the  howling  rabble.  But  it  is  mostly 
circus,  and  very  little  bread  that  our  emperors  of  the  news  give 
us." 

"We've  got  to  feed  what  the  animal  eats,"  defended  Banneker 
lightly. 


Fulfillment  357 


"  After  having  stimulated  an  artificial  appetite,"  said  Edmonds. 

As  the  talk  flowed  on,  Betty  Raleigh  adroitly  drew  Banneker 
out  of  the  current  of  it.  "Your  Patriot  needn't  have  screeched 
at  me,  Ban,"  she  murmured  in  an  injured  tone. 

"Did  it,  Betty?  How,  when,  and  where?" 

"I  thought  you  were  horridly  patronizing  about  the  new  piece, 
and  quite  unkind  to  me,  for  a  friend." 

"  It  wasn't  my  criticism,  you  know,"  he  reminded  her  patiently. 
"I  don't  write  the  whole  paper,  though  most  of  my  acquaint 
ances  seem  to  think  that  I  do.  Any  and  all  of  it  to  which  they 
take  exception,  at  least." 

"Of  course,  I  know  you  didn't  write  it,  or  it  wouldn't  have 
been  so  stupid.  I  could  stand  anything  except  the  charge  that 
I've  lost  my  naturalness  and  become  conventional." 

"You're  like  the  man  who  could  resist  anything  except  temp 
tation,  my  dear:  you  can  stand  anything  except  criticism," 
returned  Banneker  with  a  smile  so  friendly  that  there  was  no 
sting  in  the  words.  "You've  never  had  enough  of  that.  You're 
the  spoiled  pet  of  the  critics." 

"Not  of  this  new  one  of  yours.  He's  worse  than  Gurney. 
Who  is  he  and  where  does  he  come  from? " 

"An  inconsiderable  hamlet  known  as  Chicago.  Name,  Allan 
Haslett.  Dramatic  criticism  out  there  is  still  so  unsophisticated 
as  to  be  intelligent  as  well  as  honest  —  at  its  best." 

"Which  it  isn't  here,"  commented  the  special  pet  of  the 
theatrical  reviewers. 

"Well,  I  thought  a  good  new  man  would  be  better  than  the 
good  old  ones.  Less  hampered  by  personal  considerations.  So 
I  sent  and  got  this  one." 

"But  he  isn't  good,.  He's  a  horrid  beast.  We've  been  specially 
nice  to  him,  on  your  account  mostly  —  Ban,  if  you  grin  that 
way  I  shall  hate  you !  I  had  Bezdek  invite  him  to  one  of  the 
rehearsal  suppers  and  he  wouldn't  come.  Sent  word  that  theatri 
cal  suppers  affected  his  eyesight  when  he  came  to  see  the  play." 

Banneker  chuckled.  "Just  why  I  got  him.  He  doesn't  let  the 
personal  element  prejudice  him." 

"He  is  prejudiced.  And  most  unfair.  Ban,"  said  Betty  in  her 


358  Success 

most  seductive  tones,  "do  call  him  down.  Make  him  write  some 
thing  decent  about  us.  Bez  is  fearfully  upset." 

Banneker  sighed.  "The  curse  of  this  business,"  he  reflected 
aloud,  "  is  that  every  one  regards  The  Patriot  as  my  personal  toy 
for  me  or  my  friends  to  play  with." 

"This  isn't  play  at  all.  It's  very  much  earnest.  Do  be  nice 
about  it,  Ban." 

"Betty,  do  you  remember  a  dinner  party  in  the  first  days  of 
our  acquaintance,  at  which  I  told  you  that  you  represented  one 
essential  difference  from  all  the  other  women  there?" 

"Yes.  I  thought  you  were  terribly  presuming." 

"I  told  you  that  you  were  probably  the  only  woman  present 
who  wasn't  purchasable." 

"Not  understanding  you  as  well  as  I  do  now,  I  was  quite 
shocked.  Besides,  it  was  so  unfair.  Nearly  all  of  them  were  most 
respectable  married  people." 

"Bought  by  their  most  respectable  husbands.  Some  of  'em 
bought  away  from  other  husbands.  But  I  gave  you  credit  for  not 
being  on  that  market  —  or  any  other.  And  now  you're  trying  to 
corrupt  my  professional  virtue." 

"Ban!  I'm  not." 

"  What  else  is  it  when  you  try  to  use  your  influence  to  have  me 
fire  our  nice,  new  critic  ?  " 

"If  that's  being  corruptible,  I  wonder  if  any  of  us  are  incor 
ruptible."  She  stretched  upward  an  idle  hand  and  fondled  a 
spray  of  freesia  that  drooped  against  her  cheek.  "Ban;  there's 
something  I've  been  waiting  to  tell  you.  Tertius  Marrineal 
wants  to  marry  me." 

"I've  suspected  as  much.  That  would  settle  the  obnoxious 
critic,  wouldn't  it !  Though  it's  rather  a  roundabout  way." 

"Ban!  You're  beastly." 

"Yes ;  I  apologize,"  he  replied  quickly.  "But  —  have  I  got  to 
revise  my  estimate  of  you,  Betty?  I  should  hate  to." 

"Your  estimate?  Oh,  as  to  purchasability.  That's  worse  than 
what  you've  just  said.  Yet,  somehow,  I  don't  resent  it.  Because 
it's  honest,  I  suppose,"  she  said  pensively.  "No :  it  wouldn't  be 
a  —  a  market  deal.  I  like  Tertius.  I  like  him  a  lot.  I  won't 
pretend  that  I'm  madly  in  love  with  him.  But  — " 


Fulfillment  359 


"Yes;  I  know,"  he  said  gently,  as  she  paused,  looking  at  him 
steadily,  but  with  clouded  eyes.  He  read  into  that  "but"  a 
world  of  opportunities ;  a  theater  of  her  own  —  the  backing  of  a 
powerful  newspaper  —  wealth  —  and  all,  if  she  so  willed  it, 
without  interruption  to  her  professional  career. 

"  Would  you  think  any  the  less  of  me  ?  "  she  asked  wistfully. 

"Would  you  think  any  the  less  of  yourself?"  he  countered. 

The  blossoming  spray  broke  under  her  hand.  "Ah,  yes ;  that's 
the  question  after  all,  isn't  it?"  she  murmured. 

Meantime,  Gardner,  the  eternal  journalist,  fostering  a  plan  of 
his  own,  was  gathering  material  from  Guy  Mallory  who  had  come 
in  late. 

"What  gets  me,"  he  said,  looking  over  at  the  host,  "is  how  he 
can  do  a  day's  work  with  all  this  social  powwow  going  on." 

"A  day's?  He  does  three  days'  work  in  every  one.  He's  the 
hardest  trained  mind  in  the  business.  Why,  he  could  sit  down 
here  this  minute,  in  the  middle  of  this  room,  and  dictate  an  edi 
torial  while  keeping  up  his  end  in  the  general  talk.  I've  seen  him 
do  it." 

"He  must  be  a  wonder  at  concentration." 

"Concentration?  If  he  didn't  invent  it,  he  perfected  it.  Tell 
you  a  story.  Ban  doesn't  go  in  for  any  game  except  polo.  One 
day  some  of  the  fellows  at  The  Retreat  got  talking  golf  to  him  — " 

"The Retreat  ?  Good  Lord !  He  doesn't  belong  to  The  Retreat, 
does  he?" 

"Yes;  been  a  member  for  years.  Well,  they  got  him  to  agree 
to  try  it.  Jim  Tamson,  the  pro  —  he's  supposed  to  be  the  best 
instructor  in  America  —  was  there  then.  Banneker  went  out  to 
the  first  tee,  a  21 5-yard  hole,  watched  Jim  perform  his  show-'em- 
how  swing,  asked  a  couple  of  questions.  'Eye  on  the  ball,'  says 
Jim.  'That's  nine  tenths  of  it.  The  rest  is  hitting  it  easy  and  fol 
lowing  through.  Simple  and  easy,'  says  Jim,  winking  to  himself. 
Banneker  tries  two  or  three  clubs  to  see  which  feels  easiest  to 
handle,  picks  out  a  driving-iron,  and  slams  the  ball  almost  to  the 
edge  of  the  green.  Chance?  Of  course,  there  was  some  luck  in  it. 
But  it  was  mostly  his  everlasting  ability  to  keep  his  attention 
focused.  Jim  almost  collapsed.  '  First  time  I  ever  saw  a  beginner 
that  didn't  top/  says  he.  'You'll  make  a  golfer,  Mr.  Banneker.' 


360  Success 

'Not  me,'  says  Ban.  'This  game  is  too  easy.  It  doesn't  interest 
me.'  He  hands  Jim  a  twenty-dollar  bill,  thanks  him,  goes  in  and 
has  his  bath,  and  has  never  touched  a  golf-stick  since." 

Gardner  had  been  listening  with  a  kindling  eye.  He  brought 
his  fist  down  on  his  knee.  "You've  told  me  something!"  he 
exclaimed. 

" Going  to  try  it  out  on  your  own  game?" 

"  Not  about  golf.  About  Banneker.  I've  been  wondering  how 
he  managed  to  establish  himself  as  an  individual  figure  in  this  big 
town.  Now  I  begin  to  see  it.  It's  publicity ;  that's  what  it  is. 
He's  got  the  sense  of  how  to  make  himself  talked  about.  He's 
picturesque.  I'll  bet  Banneker's  first  and  last  golf  shot  is  a  legend 
in  the  clubs  yet,  isn't  it?" 

"  It  certainly  is,"  confirmed  Mallory.  "  But  do  you  really  think 
that  he  reasoned  it  all  out  on  the  spur  of  the  moment?" 

"Oh,  reasoned ;  probably  not.  It's  instinctive,  I  tell  you.  And 
the  twenty  to  the  professional  was  a  touch  of  genius.  Tamson 
will  never  stop  talking  about  it.  Can't  you  hear  him,  telling  it  to 
his  fellow  pros?  '  Golf's  too  easy  for  me,'  he  says,  'and  hands  me 
a  double  sawbuck !  Did  ye  ever  hear  the  like ! '  And  so  the  legend 
is  built  up.  It's  a  great  thing  to  become  a  local  legend.  I  know, 
for  I've  built  up  a  few  of  'em  myself.  ...  I  suppose  the  gun-play 
on  the  river-front  gave  him  his  start  at  it  and  the  rest  came 
easy." 

"Ask  him.  He'll  probably  tell  you,"  said  Mallory.  "At  least, 
he'll  be  interested  in  your  theory." 

Gardner  strolled  over  to  Banneker's  group,  not  for  the  purpose 
of  adopting  Mallory's  suggestion,  for  he  was  well  satisfied  with 
his  own  diagnosis,  but  to  congratulate  him  upon  the  rising 
strength  of  The  Patriot.  As  he  approached,  Miss  Van  Arsdale, 
in  response  to  a  plea  from  Betty  Raleigh,  went  to  the  piano, 
and  the  dwindled  crowd  settled  down  into  silence.  For  music, 
at  The  House  With  Three  Eyes,  was  invariably  the  sort  of  music 
that  people  [listen  to ;  that  is,  the  kind  of  people  whom  Banne 
ker  gathered  around  him. 

After  she  had  played,  Miss  Van  Arsdale  declared  that  she 
must  go,  whereupon  Banneker  insisted  upon  taking  her  to  her 


Fulfillment  361 

hotel.  To  her  protests  against  dragging  him  away  from  his  own 
party,  he  retorted  that  the  party  could  very  well  run  itself  with 
out  him ;  his  parties  often  did,  when  he  was  specially  pressed  in 
his  work.  Accepting  this,  his  friend  elected  to  walk ;  she  wanted 
to  hear  more  about  The  Patriot.  What  did  she  think  of  it,  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  expect  you  to  like  it,"  he  added. 

"That  doesn't  matter.  I  do  tremendously  admire  your  edito 
rials.  They're  beautifully  done ;  the  perfection  of  clarity.  But 
the  rest  of  the  paper  —  I  can't  see  you  in  it." 

"Because  I'm  not  there,  as  an  individual." 

He  expounded  to  her  his  theory  of  journalism.  That  was  a 
just  characterization  of  Junior  Masters,  he  said :  the  three-ringed 
circus.  He,  Banneker,  would  run  any  kind  of  a  circus  they 
wanted,  to  catch  and  hold  their  eyes ;  the  sensational  acts,  the 
clowns  of  the  funny  pages,  the  blare  of  the  bands,  the  motion, 
the  color,  and  the  spangles ;  all  to  beguile  them  into  reading  and 
eventually  to  thinking. 

"But  we  haven't  worked  it  out  yet,  as  we  should.  What  I'm 
really  aiming  at  is  a  saturated  solution,  as  the  chemists  say: 
Not  a  saturated  solution  of  circulation,  for  that  isn't  possible, 
but  a  saturated  solution  of  influence.  If  we  can't  put  The  Patriot 
into  every  man's  house,  we  ought  to  be  able  to  put  it  into  every 
man's  mind.  All  things  to  all  men:  that's  the  formula.  We're 
far  from  it  yet,  but  we're  on  the  road.  And  in  the  editorials, 
I'm  making  people  stir  their  minds  about  real  things  who  never 
before  developed  a  thought  beyond  the  everyday,  mechanical 
processes  of  living." 

"To  what  end?"  she  asked  doubtfully. 

"Does  it  matter?  Isn't  the  thinking,  in  itself,  end  enough?" 

"Brutish  thinking  if  it's  represented  in  your  screaming  head 
lines." 

"Predigested  news.  I  want  to  preserve  all  their  brain-power 
for  my  editorial  page.  And,  oh,  how  easy  I  make  it  for  them ! 
Thoughts  of  one  syllable." 

"And  you  use  your  power  over  their  minds  to  incite  them  to 
discontent." 


362  Success 


"Certainly." 

"But  that's  dreadful,  Ban!  To  stir  up  bitterness  and  rancor 
among  people." 

"Don't  you  be  misled  by  cant,  Miss  Camilla,"  adjured  Banne- 
ker.  "The  contented  who  have  everything  to  make  them  con 
tent  have  put  a  stigma  on  discontent.  They'd  have  us  think  it  a 
crime.  It  isn't.  It's  a  virtue." 

"Ban!  A  virtue?" 

"Well;  isn't  it?  Call  it  by  the  other  name,  ambition.  What 
then?" 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  pondered  with  troubled  eyes.  "I  see  what 
you  mean,"  she  confessed.  "But  the  discontent  that  arises 
within  one's  self  is  one  thing;  the  'divine  discontent.'  It's  quite 
another  to  foment  it  for  your  own  purposes  in  the  souls  of 
others." 

"That  depends  upon  the  purpose.  If  the  purpose  is  to  help 
the  others,  through  making  their  discontent  effective  to  some 
thing  better,  isn't  it  justified?" 

"But  isn't  there  always  the  danger  of  making  a  profession  of 
discontent?" 

"That's  a  shrewd  hit,"  confessed  Banneker.  "I've  suspected 
that  Marrineal  means  to  capitalize  it  eventually,  though  I  don't 
know  just  how.  He's  a  secret  sort  of  animal,  Marrineal." 

"  But  he  gives  you  a  free  hand  ?  "  she  asked. 

"He  has  to,"  said  Banneker  simply. 

Camilla  Van  Arsdale  sighed.  "It's  success,  Ban.  Isn't  it?" 

"Yes.  It's  success.  In  its  kind." 

"  Is  it  happiness  ?" 

"Yes.  Also  in  its  kind." 

"The  real  kind?  The  best  kind?" 

"It's  satisfaction.  I'm  doing  what  I  want  to  do." 

She  sighed.  "I'd  hoped  for  something  more." 

He  shook  his  head.  "One  can't  have  everything." 

"Why  not?"  she  demanded  almost  fiercely.  "You  ought  to 
have.  You're  made  for  it."  After  a  pause  she  added:  "Then  it 
isn't  Betty  Raleigh.  I'd  hoped  it  was.  I've  been  watching  her. 
There's  character  there,  Ban,  as  well  as  charm." 


Fulfillment  363 

"She  has  other  interests.  No ;  it  isn't  Betty." 

"Ban,  there  are  times  when  I  could  hate  her,"  broke  out  Miss 
Van  Arsdale. 

"Who?  Betty?" 

"You  know  whom  well  enough." 

"  I  stand  corrected  in  grammar  as  well  as  fact,"  he  said  lightly. 

"Have  you  seen  her?" 

"Yes.  I  see  her  occasionally.  Not  often." 

"Does  she  come  here?" 

"She  has  been." 

"And  her  husband?" 

"No." 

"Ban,  aren't  you  ever  going  to  get  over  it?" 

He  looked  at  her  silently. 

"No;  you  won't.  There  are  a  few  of  us  like  that.  God  help 
us !"  said  Camilla  Van  Arsdale. 


CHAPTER  II 

OTHERS  than  Banneker's  friends  and  frequenters  now  evinced 
symptoms  of  interest  in  his  influence  upon  his  environment. 
Approve  him  you  might,  or  disapprove  him ;  the  palpable  fact 
remained  that  he  wielded  a  growing  power.  Several  promising 
enterprises  directed  at  the  City  Treasury  had  aborted  under 
destructive  pressure  from  his  pen.  A  once  impregnably  cohesive 
ring  of  Albany  legislators  had  disintegrated  with  such  violence 
of  mutual  recrimination  that  prosecution  loomed  imminent, 
because  of  a  two  weeks'  "vacation"  of  Banneker's  at  the  State 
Capitol.  He  had  hunted  some  of  the  lawlessness  out  of  the  Police 
Department  and  bludgeoned  some  decent  housing  measures 
through  the  city  councils.  Politically  he  was  deemed  faithless 
and  unreliable  which  meant  that,  as  an  independent,  he  had 
ruined  some  hopefully  profitable  combinations  in  both  parties. 
Certain  men,  high  up  in  politics  and  finance  at  the  point  where 
they  overlap,  took  thoughtful  heed  of  him.  How  could  they  make 
him  useful?  Or,  at  least,  prevent  him  from  being  harmful?" 

No  less  a  potentate  than  Poultney  Masters  had  sought  illumi 
nation  from  Willis  Enderby  upon  the  subject  in  the  days  when 
people  in  street-cars  first  began  to  rustle  through  the  sheets  of 
The  Patriot,  curious  to  see  what  the  editorial  had  to  say  to  them 
that  day. 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?"  began  the  magnate. 

"  Able,"  grunted  the  other. 

"If  he  weren't,  I  wouldn't  be  troubling  my  head  about  him. 
What  else?  Dangerous?" 

"As  dangerous  as  he  is  upright.  Exactly." 

"Now,  I  wonder  what  the  devil  you  mean  by  that,  Enderby," 
said  the  financier  testily.  "Dangerous  as  long  as  he's  upright? 
Sh?  And  dangerous  to  what?" 

"To  anything  he  goes  after.  He's  got  a  following.  I  might 
almost  say  a  blind  following." 

"Got  a  boss,  too,  hasn't  he?" 


Fulfillment  365 

"Marrineal?  Ah,  I  don't  know  how  far  Marrineal  interferes. 
And  I  don't  know  Marrineal." 

"  Upright,  too ;  that  one  ?  "  The  sneer  in  Masters's  heavy  voice 
was  palpable. 

"  You  consider  that  no  newspaper  can  be  upright,"  the  lawyer 
interpreted. 

"I've  bought  'em  and  bluffed  'em  and  stood  'em  in  a  corner  to 
be  good."  returned  the  other  simply.  "What  would  you  expect 
my  opinion  to  be?" 

"The  Sphere,  among  them?"  queried  the  lawyer. 

"Damn  The  Sphere!"  exploded  the  other.  "A  dirty,  muck- 
grubbing,  lying,  crooked  rag." 

"Your  actual  grudge  against  it  is  not  for  those  latter  qualities, 
though,"  pointed  out  Enderby.  "On  questions  where  it  conflicts 
with  your  enterprises,  it's  straight  enough.  That's  it's  defect. 
Upright  equals  dangerous.  You  perceive?" 

Masters  shrugged  the  problem  away  with  a  thick  and  ponder 
ous  jerk  of  his  shoulders.  "What's  young  Banneker  after?" 
he  demanded. 

"You  ought  to  know  him  as  well  as  I.  He's  a  sort  of  protege 
of  yours,  isn't  he?" 

"At  The  Retreat,  you  mean?  I  put  him  in  because  he  looked 
to  be  polo  stuff.  Now  the  young  squirt  won't  practice  enough  to 
be  certain  team  material." 

"  Found  a  bigger  game." 

"Umph  !  But  what's  in  back  of  it?" 

"It's  the  game  for  the  game's  sake  with  him,  I  suspect.  I  can 
only  tell  you  that,  wherever  I've  had  contact  with  him,  he  has 
been  perfectly  straightforward." 

"Maybe.  But  what  about  this  anarchistic  stuff  of  his?" 

"Oh,  anarchistic !  You  mean  his  attacks  on  Wall  Street?  The 
Stock  Exchange  isn't  synonymous  with  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States,  you  know,  Masters.  Do  moderate  your  language." 

"Now  you're  laughing  at  me,  damn  you,  Enderby." 

"It's  good  for  you.  You  ought  to  laugh  at  yourself  more. 
Ask  Banneker  what  he's  at.  Very  probably  he'll  laugh  at  you 
inside.  But  he'll  answer  you." 


366  Success 


"That  reminds  me.  He  had  an  editorial  last  week  that  stuck 
to  me.  '  It  is  the  bitter  laughter  of  the  people  that  shakes  thrones. 
Have  a  care,  you  money  kings,  not  to  become  too  ridiculous ! ' 
Isn't  that  socialist-anarchist  stuff?" 

"It's  very  young  stuff.  But  it's  got  a  quality,  hasn't  it?" 

"Oh,  hell,  yes;  quality!"  rumbled  the  profane  old  man. 
"Well,  I  will  tackle  your  young  prodigy  one  of  these  days." 

Which,  accordingly,  he  did,  encountering,  some  days  later, 
Banneker  in  the  reading-room  at  The  Retreat. 

"What  are  you  up  to;  making  trouble  with  that  editorial 
screed  of  yours?"  he  growled  at  the  younger  man. 

Banneker  smiled.  He  accepted  that  growl  from  Poultne)' 
Masters,  not  because  Masters  was  a  great  and  formidable  figure 
in  the  big  world,  but  because  beneath  the  snarl  there  was  a 
quality  of  —  no,  not  of  friendliness,  but  of  man-to-man  approach. 

"No.  I'm  trying  to  cure  trouble,  not  make  it." 

"Umph!  Queer  idea  of  curing.  Here  we  are  in  the  midst  of 
good  times,  everywhere,  and  you  talk  about  —  what  was  the 
stuff?  —  oh,  yes:  'The  grinning  mask  of  prosperity,  beneath 
which  Want  searches  with  haggard  and  threatening  eyes  for  the 
crust  denied.'  Fine  stuff!" 

"  Not  mine.  I  don't  write  as  beautifully  as  all  that.  It's  quoted 
from  a  letter.  But  I'll  take  the  responsibility,  since  I  quoted  it. 
There's  some  truth  in  it,  you  know." 

"  Not  a  hair's- weight.  If  you  fill  the  minds  of  the  ignorant  with 
that  sort  of  thing,  where  shall  we  end  ?  " 

"If  you  fill  the  minds  of  the  ignorant,  they  will  no  longer  be 
ignorant." 

"Then  they'll  be  above  their  class  and  their  work.  Our  whole 
trouble  is  in  that ;  people  thinking  they're  too  good  for  the  sort 
of  work  they're  fitted  for." 

"Aren't  they  too  good  if  they  can  think  themselves  into  some 
thing  better  ?" 

Poultney  Masters  delivered  himself  of  a  historical  profundity. 
"The  man  who  first  had  the  notion  of  teaching  the  mass  of 
people  to  read  will  have  something  to  answer  for." 

"Destructive,  isn't  it?"  said  Banneker,  looking  up  quickly. 


Fulfillment  367 


"Now,  you  want  to  go  farther.  You  want  to  teach  'em  to 
think." 

"Exactly.  Why  not?" 

"Why  not?  Why,  because,  you  young  idiot,  they'll  think 
wrong." 

"Very  likely.  At  first.  We  all  had  to  spell  wrong  before  we 
spelled  right.  What  if  people  do  think  wrong  ?  It's  the  thinking 
that's  important.  Eventually  they'll  think  right." 

"With  the  newspapers  to  guide  them?"  There  was  a  world 
of  scorn  in  the  magnate's  voice. 

"Some  will  guide  wrong.  Some  will  guide  right.  The  most  I 
hope  to  do  is  to  teach  'em  a  little  to  use  their  minds.  Education 
and  a  fair  field.  To  find  out  and  to  make  clear  what  is  found ; 
that's  the  business  of  a  newspaper  as  I  see  it." 

"Tittle-tattle.  Tale-monger  ing,"  was  Masters 's  contemptuous 
qualification. 

"A  royal  mission,"  laughed  Banneker.  "I  call  the  Sage  to 
witness.  'But  the  glory  of  kings  is  to  search  out  a  matter.'" 

"But  they've  got  to  be  kings,"  retorted  the  other  quickly. 
"It's  a  tricky  business,  Banneker.  Better  go  in  for  polo.  We 
need  you."  He  lumbered  away,  morose  and  growling,  but 
turned  back  to  call  over  his  shoulder :  "  Read  your  own  stuff  when 
you  get  up  to-morrow  and  see  if  polo  isn't  a  better  game  and  a 
cleaner." 

What  the  Great  of  the  city  might  think  of  his  journalistic 
achievement  troubled  Banneker  but  little,  so  long  as  they 
thought  of  it  at  all,  thereby  proving  its  influence;  the  general 
public  was  his  sole  arbiter,  except  for  the  opinions  of  the  very 
few  whose  approval  he  really  desired,  lo  Eyre,  Camilla  Van 
Arsdale,  and  more  remotely  the  men  for  whose  own  standards 
he  maintained  a  real  respect,  such  as  Willis  Enderby  and  Gaines. 
Determined  to  make  Miss  Van  Arsdale  see  his  point  of  view,  as 
well  as  to  assure  himself  of  hers,  he  had  extracted  from  her  a 
promise  that  she  would  visit  The  Patriot  office  before  she  re 
turned  to  the  West.  Accordingly,  on  a  set  morning  she  arrived 
on  her  trip  of  inspection,  tall,  serene,  and,  in  her  aloof  genre, 
beautiful,  an  alien  figure  in  the  midst  of  that  fevered  and  deliri- 


368  Success 

ous  energy.  He  took  her  through  the  plant,  elucidating  the  me 
chanical  processes  of  the  daily  miracle  of  publication,  more  far- 
reaching  than  was  ever  any  other  voice  of  man,  more  ephemeral 
than  the  day  of  the  briefest  butterfly.  Throughout,  the  visitor's 
pensive  eyes  kept  turning  from  the  creature  to  the  creator,  until, 
back  in  the  trim  quietude  of  his  office,  famed  as  the  only  orderly 
working-room  of  journalism,  she  delivered  her  wondering  ques 
tion  : 

"And  you  have  made  all  this,  Ban?" 

"At  least  I've  remade  it." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No;  as  I  told  you  before,  I  can't  see 
you  in  it." 

"You  mean,  it  doesn't  express  me.  It  isn't  meant  to.' 

"Whom  does  it  express,  then?  Mr.  Marrineal?" 

"No.  It  isn't  an  expression  at  all  in  that  sense.  It's  a  —  a 
response.  A  response  to  the  demand  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
people  who  have  never  had  a  newspaper  made  for  them  before." 

"An  echo  of  vox  populi  ?  Does  that  excuse  its  sins  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  putting  it  forth  as  an  excuse.  Is  it  really  sins  or  only 
bad  taste  that  offends  you?" 

"Clever,  Ban.  And  true  in  a  measure.  But  insincerity  is  more 
than  bad  taste.  It's  one  of  the  primal  sins." 

"You  find  The  Patriot  insincere?" 

"Can  I  find  it  anything  else,  knowing  you?" 

"Ah,  there  you  go  wrong  again,  Miss  Camilla.  As  an  expres 
sion  of  my  ideals,  the  news  part  of  the  paper  would  be  insincere. 
I  don't  like  it  much  better  than  you  do.  But  I  endure  it ;  yes, 
I'll  be  frank  and  admit  that  I  even  encourage  it,  because  it  gives 
me  wider  scope  for  the  things  I  want  to  say.  Sincere  things.  I've 
never  yet  written  in  my  editorial  column  anything  that  I  don't 
believe  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul.  Take  that  as  a  basis  on 
which  to  judge  me." 

"My  dear  Ban !  I  don't  want  to  judge  you." 

"I  want  you  to,"  he  cried  eagerly.  "I  want  your  judgment 
and  your  criticism.  But  you  must  see  what  I'm  aiming  for. 
Miss  Camilla,  I'm  making  people  stir  their  minds  and  think  who 
never  before  had  a  thought  beyond  the  everyday  processes  of 
life." 


Fulfillment  369 


"For  your  own  purposes?  Thought,  as  you  manipulate  it, 
might  be  a  high-explosive.  Have  you  thought  of  using  it  in  that 
way?" 

"If  I  found  a  part  of  the  social  edifice  that  had  to  be  blown  to 
pieces,  I  might." 

"Take  care  that  you  don't  involve  us  all  in  the  crash.  Mean* 
time,  what  is  the  rest  of  your  editorial  page ;  a  species  of  sedative 
to  lull  their  minds?  Who  is  Evadne  Ellington?" 

"One  of  our  most  prominent  young  murderesses." 

"And  you  let  her  sign  a  column  on  your  page? " 

"Oh,  she's  a  highly  moral  murderess.  Killed  her  lover  in 
defense  of  her  honor,  you  know.  Which  means  that  she  shot  him 
when  he  got  tired  of  her.  A  sobbing  jury  promptly  acquitted 
her,  and  now  she's  writing  'Warnings  to  Young  Girls.'  They're 
most  improving  and  affecting,  I  assure  you.  We  look  after  that." 

"  Ban !  I  hate  to  have  you  so  cynical." 

"Not  at  all,"  he  protested.  "Ask  the  Prevention  of  Vice 
people  and  the  criminologists.  They'll  tell  you  that  Evadne's 
column  is  a  real  influence  for  good  among  the  people  who  read 
and  believe  it." 

"What  class  is  Reformed  Rennigan's  sermon  aimed  at?" 
she  inquired,  with  wrinkling  nostrils.  "'Soaking  it  to  Satan'; 
is  that  another  regular  feature?" 

"Twice  a  week.  It  gives  us  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  circulation  that  is 
worth  a  good  deal  to  us.  Outside  of  my  double  column,  the  page 
is  a  sort  of  forum.  I'll  take  anything  that  is  interesting  or  authori 
tative.  For  example,  if  Royce  Melvin  had  something  of  value 
to  say  to  the  public  about  music,  where  else  could  she  find  so 
mde  a  hearing  as  through  The  Patriot  ?" 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  returned  his  visitor  dryly. 

"No?  Are  you  sure?  What  is  your  opinion  of  'The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner'  as  a  national  song? " 

"It's  dreadful." 

"Why?" 

"For  every  reason.  The  music  misfits  the  words.  It's  beyond 
the  range  of  most  voices.  The  harmonies  are  thin.  No  crowd  in 
the  world  can  sing  it.  What  is  the  value  or  inspiration  of  a 
national  song  that  the  people  can't  sing?" 


370  Success 

"Ask  it  of  The  Patriot's  public.  I'll  follow  it  up  editorially; 
'Wanted;  A  Song  for  America.'" 

"I  will,"  she  answered  impulsively.  Then  she  laughed.  "Is 
that  the  way  you  get  your  contributors?" 

"Often,  as  the  spider  said  to  the  fly,"  grinned  Banneker  the 
shameless.  "Take  a  thousand  words  or  more  and  let  us  have 
your  picture." 

"No.  Not  that.  I've  seen  my  friends'  pictures  too  often  in 
your  society  columns.  By  the  way,  how  conies  it  that  a  paper 
devoted  to  the  interests  of  the  common  people  maintains  that 
aristocratic  feature  ? '' 

"Oh,  the  common  people  eat  it  alive.  Russell  Edmonds  is 
largely  responsible  for  keeping  it  up.  You  should  hear  his 
theory.  It's  ingenious.  I'll  send  for  him." 

Edmonds,  who  chanced  to  be  at  his  desk,  entered  the  editorial 
den  with  his  tiny  pipe  between  his  teeth,  and,  much  disconcerted 
at  finding  a  lady  there,  hastily  removed  it  until  Miss  Van 
Arsdale  suggested  its  restitution. 

"What?  The  society  page?"  said  he.  "Yes;  1  was  against 
dropping  it.  You  see,  Miss  Van  Arsdale,  I'm  a  Socialist  in 
belief." 

"Is  there  a  pun  concealed  in  that  or  are  you  serious,  Mr. 
Edmonds?" 

"Serious.  I'm  always  that  on  the  subjects  of  Socialism  and 
The  Patriot." 

"Then  you  must  explain  if  I'm  to  understand." 

"By  whom  is  society  news  read?  By  two  classes,"  expounded 
the  veteran;  "those  whose  names  appear,  and  those  who  are 
envious  of  those  whose  names  appear.  Well,  we're  after  the 
envious." 

"  Still  I  don't  see.  With  wnat  purpose  ? ' 

"Jim  Simpson,  who  has  just  got  his  grocery  bill  for  more  than 
he  can  pay,  reads  a  high-colored  account  of  Mrs.  Stumpley- 
Triggs's  aquatic  dinner  served  in  the  hundred- thousand-dollar 
swimming-pool  on  her  Westchester  estate.  That  makes  Jim 
think." 

"You  mean  that  it  makes  him  discontented." 


Fulfillment  371 

"Well,  discontent  is  a  mighty  leaven." 

Miss  Van  Arsdale  directed  her  fine  and  serious  eyes  upon 
Banneker.  "So  it  comes  back  to  the  cult  of  discontent.  Is  that 
Mr.  Marrineal's  formula,  too,  Mr.  Edmonds?" 

"Underneath  all  his  appearance  of  candor,  Marrineal's  a 
secret  animal,"  said  Edmonds. 

"Does  he  leave  you  a  free  hand  with  your  editorials,  Ban?" 
inquired  the  outsider. 

"Absolutely." 

"Watches  the  circulation  only,"  said  Edmonds.  "Thus  far," 
he  added. 

'•    "You're  looking  for  an  ulterior  motive,  then,"  interpreted 
Miss  Van  Arsdale. 

"I'm  looking  for  whatever  I  can  find  in  Marrineal,  Miss 
Van  Arsdale,"  confessed  the  patriarch  of  the  office.  "As  vet  I 
haven't  found  much." 

"I  have,"  said  Banneker.  "I've  discovered  his  theory  of 
journalism.  We  three,  Edmonds,  Marrineal,  and  I,  regard  this 
business  from  three  diverse  viewpoints.  To  Edmonds  it's  a  voca 
tion  and  a  rostrum.  He  wants  really,  under  his  guise  as  the  most 
far-seeing  news  man  of  his  time,  to  call  sinners  against  society 
to  repentance,  or  to  force  repentance  down  their  throats.  There's 
a  good  deal  of  the  stern  evangelist  about  you,  you  know,  Pop." 

"  And  you  ?  "  The  other's  smile  seemed  enmeshed  in  the  dainty 
spiral  of  smoke  brooding  above  his  pursed  lips. 

"Oh,  I'm  more  the  pedagogue.  With  me,  too,  the  game  is  a 
vocation.  But  it's  a  different  one.  I'd  like  to  marshal  men's 
minds  as  a  generalissimo  marshals  armies." 

"In  the  bonds  of  your  own  discipline?"  asked  Miss  Van 
Arsdale. 

"If  I  could  chain  a  mind  I'd  be  the  most  splendid  tyrant  of 
history.  No.  Free  leadership  of  the  free  is  good  enough." 

"If  Marrineal  will  leave  you  free,"  commented  the  veteran. 
"What's  your  diagnosis  of  Marrineal,  then?" 

"A  priest  of  Baal." 

"With  The  Patriot  in  the  part  of  Baal?" 

"Not  precisely  The  Patriot.  Publicity,  rather,  of  which  The 


372  Success 

Patriot  is  merely  the  instrument.  Marrineal's  theory  of  pub 
licity  is  interesting.  It  may  even  be  true.  Substantially  it  is 
this :  All  civilized  Americans  fear  and  love  print ;  that  is  to  say, 
Publicity,  for  which  read  Baal.  They  fear  it  for  what  it  may  do  to 
them.  They  love  and  fawn  on  it  for  what  it  may  do  for  them. 
It  confers  the  boon  of  glory  and  launches  the  bolts  of  shame. 
Its  favorites,  made  and  anointed  from  day  to  day,  are  the  blessed 
of  their  time.  Those  doomed  by  it  are  the  outcasts.  It  sits  in 
momentary  judgment,  and  appeal  from  its  decisions  is  too  late 
to  avail  anything  to  its  victims.  A  species  of  auto- juggernaut, 
with  Marrineal  at  the  wheel." 

"What  rubbish !"  said  Miss  Van  Arsdale  with  amused  scorn. 

"Oh,  because  you've  nothing  to  ask  or  fear  from  Baal.  Yet 
even  you  would  use  it,  for  your  musical  preachment." 

As  he  spoke,  he  became  aware  of  Edmonds  staring  moodily 
and  with  pinched  lips  at  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  To  the  mind's  eye 
of  the  old  stager  had  flashed  a  sudden  and  astounding  vision  of  all 
that  pride  of  womanhood  and  purity  underlying  the  beauty  of 
the  face,  overlaid  and  fouled  by  the  inky  vomit  of  Baal  of  the 
printing-press,  as  would  have  come  to  pass  had  not  he,  Edmonds, 
obstructed  the  vengeance. 

"I  can  imagine  nothing  printed,"  said  the  woman  who  had 
loved  Willis  Enderby,  "that  could  in  any  manner  influence  my 
life." 

"Fortunate  you!"  Edmonds  wreathed  his  little  congratula 
tion  in  festoons  of  light  vapor.  "But  you  live  in  a  world  of  your 
own  making.  Marrineal  is  reckoning  on  the  world  which  lives 
and  thinks  largely  in  terms  of  what  its  neighbor  thinks  of  it." 

"He  once  said  to  me,"  remarked  Banneker,  "that  the  desire 
to  get  into  or  keep  out  of  print  could  be  made  the  master-key  to 
new  and  undreamed-of  powers  of  journalism  if  one  had  the 
ability  to  find  a  formula  for  it." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  understand  what  he  means,"  said  Miss 
Van  Arsdale,  "but  it  has  a  sinister  sound." 

"Are  Baal's  other  names  Bribery  and  Blackmail?"  glowered 
Edmonds. 

"There  has  never  been  a  hint  of  any  illegitimate  use  of  the 


Fulfillment  373 


paper,  so  far  as  I  can  discover.  Yet  it's  pretty  plain  to  me  that 
he  intends  to  use  it  as  an  instrument." 

"  As  soon  as  we've  made  it  strong  enough,"  supplied  Edmonds. 

"An  instrument  of  what?"  inquired  Miss  Van  Arsdale. 

"Power  for  himself.  Political,  I  suppose." 

"Does  he  want  office?"  she  asked. 

"Perhaps.  Perhaps  he  prefers  the  deeper-lying  power  to  make 
and  unmake  politicians.  We've  done  it  already  in  a  few  cases. 
That's  Edmonds's  specialty.  I'll  know  within  a  few  days  what 
Marrineal  wants,  if  I  can  get  a  showdown.  He  and  I  are  coming 
to  a  new  basis  of  finance." 

"Yes;  he  thinks  he  can't  afford  to  keep  on  paying  you  by 
circulation.  You're  putting  on  too  much."  This  from  Edmonds. 

"That's  what  he  got  me  here  for.  However,  I  don't  really 
believe  he  can.  I'm  eating  up  what  should  be  the  paper's  legiti 
mate  profits.  And  yet"  —  he  smiled  radiantly  —  "there  are 
times  when  I  don't  see  how  I'm  going  to  get  along  with  what  I 
have.  It's  pretty  absurd,  isn't  it,  to  feel  pinched  on  fifty  thou 
sand  a  year,  when  I  did  so  well  at  Manzanita  on  sixty  a  month  ?  " 

"It's  a  fairy-tale,"  declared  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  "I  knew  that 
you  were  going  to  arrive  sooner  or  later,  Ban.  But  this  isn't  an 
arrival.  It's  a  triumph." 

"Say  rather  it's  a  feat  of  balancing,"  he  propounded.  "A 
tight-rope  stunt  on  a  gilded  rope.  Failure  on  one  side ;  debt  on 
the  other.  Keep  going  like  the  devil  to  save  yourself  from 
falling." 

"What  is  it  making  of  him,  Mr.  Edmonds?"  Banneker's 
oldest  friend  turned  her  limpid  and  anxious  regard  upon  his 
closest  friend. 

"A  power.  Oh,  it's  real  enough,  all  this  empire  of  words  that 
crumbles  daily.  It  leaves  something  behind,  a  little  residue  of 
thought,  ideals,  convictions.  What  do  you  fear  for  him?" 

"Cynicism,"  she  breathed  uneasily. 

"It's  the  curse  of  the  game.  But  it  doesn't  get  the  worker  who 
feels  his  work  striking  home." 

"Do  you  see  any  trace  of  cynicism  in  the  paper?"  asked  Ban- 
neker  curiously. 


'374  Success 

"All  this  blaring  and  glaring  and  froth  and  distortion,"  she 
replied,  sweeping  her  hand  across  the  issue  which  lay  on  the 
desk  before  her.  "  Can  you  do  that  sort  of  thing  and  not  become 
that  sort  of  thing?" 

"Ask  Edmonds,"  said  Banneker. 

"Thirty  years  I've  been  in  this  business,"  said  the  veteran 
slowly.  "  I  suppose  there  are  few  of  its  problems  and  perplexities 
that  I  haven't  been  up  against.  And  I  tell  you,  Miss  Van  Arsdale, 
all  this  froth  and  noise  and  sensationalism  doesn't  matter.  It's 
an  offense  to  taste,  I  know.  But  back  of  it  is  the  big  thing  that 
we're  trying  to  do ;  to  enlist  the  ignorant  and  helpless  and  teach 
them  to  be  less  ignorant  and  helpless.  If  fostering  the  political 
ambitions  of  a  Marrineal  is  part  of  the  price,  why,  I'm  willing  to 
pay  it,  so  long  as  the  paper  keeps  straight  and  doesn't  sell  itself 
for  bribe  money.  After  all,  Marrineal  can  ride  to  his  goal  only 
on  our  chariot.  The  Patriot  is  an  institution  now.  You  can't 
alter  an  institution,  not  essentially.  You  get  committed  to  it, 
to  the  thing  you've  made  yourself.  Ban  and  I  have  made  the 
new  Patriot,  not  Marrineal.  Even  if  he  got  rid  of  us,  he  couldn't 
change  the  paper ;  not  for  a  long  time  and  only  very  gradually. 
The  following  that  we've  built  up  would  be  too  strong  for  him." 

"Isn't  it  too  strong  for  you  two?"  asked  the  doubting  woman- 
soul. 

"No.  We  understand  it  because  we  made  it." 

"Frankenstein  once  said  something  like  that,"  she  murmured. 

"It  isn't  a  monster,"  rumbled  Edmonds.  "Sometimes  I  think 
it's  a  toy  dog,  with  Ban's  ribbon  around  its  cute  little  neck.  I'll 
answer  for  Ban,  Miss  Van  Arsdale." 

The  smoke  of  his  minute  pipe  went  up,  tenuous  and  graceful, 
incense  devoted  to  the  unseen  God  behind  the  strangely  pat 
terned  curtain  of  print;  to  Baal  who  was  perhaps  even  then 
grinning  down  upon  his  unsuspecting  worshipers. 

But  Banneker,  moving  purposefully  amidst  that  vast  phan 
tasmagoria  of  pulsing  print,  wherein  all  was  magnified,  distorted, 
perverted  to  the  claims  of  a  gross  and  rabid  public  appetite, 
dreamed  his  pure,  untainted  dream ;  the  conception  of  his  news 
paper  as  a  voice  potent  enough  to  reach  and  move  all ;  dominant 


Fulfillment  375 


enough  to  impose  its  underlying  ideal ;  confident  enough  of  right 
eousness  to  be  free  of  all  silencing  and  control.  That  voice  should 
supply  the  long  unsatisfied  hunger  of  the  many  for  truth  uncor- 
rupted.  It  should  enunciate  straightly,  simply,  without  reserva 
tion,  the  daily  verities  destined  to  build  up  the  eternal  structure. 
It  should  be  a  religion  of  seven  days  a  week,  set  forth  by  a 
thousand  devoted  preachers  for  a  million  faithful  hearers. 

Camilla  Van  Arsdale  had  partly  read  his  dream,  and  could 
have  wept  for  it  and  him. 

lo  Eyre  had  begun  to  read  it,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him 
anew.  For  this  was  the  test  of  success. 


CHAPTER  ITT 

IT  was  one  of  those  mornings  of  coolness  after  cloying  heat  when 
even  the  crowded,  reeking,  frowzy  metropolis  wakes  with  a 
breath  of  freshness  in  its  nostrils.  Independent  of  sleep  as  ever, 
Banneker  was  up  and  footing  it  briskly  for  the  station  before 
eight  o'clock,  for  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  was  returning  to  Manza- 
nita,  having  been  ordered  back  to  her  seclusion  with  medical 
science's  well-considered  verdict  wrapped  up  in  tactful  words  to 
bear  her  company  on  the  long  journey.  When  she  would  be 
ordered  on  a  longer  journey  by  a  mightier  Authority,  medical 
science  forbore  to  specify ;  but  in  the  higher  interests  of  American 
music  it  was  urgently  pressed  upon  her  that  she  be  abstemious 
in  diet,  niggardly  of  work,  careful  about  fatigue  and  excitement, 
and  in  general  comport  herself  in  such  manner  as  to  deprive  the 
lease  of  life  remaining  to  her  of  most  of  its  savor  and  worth.  She 
had  told  Ban  that  the  physicians  thought  her  condition  favor 
able. 

Invalidism  was  certainly  not  suggested  in  her  erect  bearing  and 
serene  face  as  she  moved  about  her  stateroom  setting  in  order 
the  books,  magazines,  flowers,  and  candy,  with  which  Banneker 
had  sought  to  fortify  her  against  the  tedium  of  the  trip.  As  the 
time  for  departure  drew  near,  they  fell  into  and  effortfully  main 
tained  that  meaningless,  banal,  and  jerky  talk  which  is  the 
inevitable  concomitant  of  long  partings  between  people  who, 
really  caring  for  each  other,  can  find  nothing  but  commonplaces 
wherewith  to  ease  their  stress  of  mind.  Miss  Van  Arsdale's 
common  sense  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Go  away,  my  dear,"  she  said,  with  her  understanding  smile. 
"Don't  think  that  you're  obliged  to  cling  to  the  dragging  min 
utes.  It's  an  ungraceful  posture.  . .  .  Ban !  What  makes  you  look 
Mkethat?" 

"I  thought  — I  heard—" 

A  clear  voice  outside  said,  "Then  it  must  be  this  one."  There 
was  a  decisive  tap  on  the  door.  "  May  I  come  in  ?  "... "  Come  in," 


Fulfillment  377 


responded  Miss  Van  Arsdale.  "Bring  them  here,  porter," 
directed  the  voice  outside,  and  lo  entered  followed  by  an  atten 
dant  almost  hidden  in  a  huge  armful  of  such  roses  as  are  unpur- 
chasable  even  in  the  most  luxurious  of  stores. 

"I've  looted  our  conservatory,"  said  she.  "Papa  will  slay  me. 
They'll  last  to  Chicago." 

After  an  almost  imperceptible  hesitation  she  kissed  the  older 
woman.  She  gave  her  hand  to  Banneker.  "I  knew  I  should  find 
you  here." 

"Any  other  woman  of  my  acquaintance  would  have  said, 
'Who  would  have  expected  to  find  you  here !' "  commented  Miss 
Van  Arsdale. 

"Yes?  I  suppose  so.  .But  we've  never  been  on  that  footing, 
Ban  and  I."  lo's  tone  was  casual ;  almost  careless. 

"I  thought  that  you  were  in  the  country,"  said  Banneker. 

"  So  we  are.  I  drove  up  this  morning  to  bid  Miss  Van  Arsdale 
Ion  voyage,  and  all  the  luck  in  the  world.  I  suppose  we  three  shall 
meet  again  one  of  these  days." 

"You  prophesy  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  tone  a  gross  improb 
ability,"  observed  Miss  Van  Arsdale. 

"Oh,  our  first  meeting  was  the  gross  improbability,"  retorted 
the  girl  lightly.  "  After  that  anything  might  be  logical.  A u  revoir." , 

"Go  with  her,  Ban,"  said  Miss  Camilla. 

"It  isn't  leaving  time  yet,"  he  protested.  "There's  five  whole 
minutes." 

"  Yes ;  come  with  me,  Ban,"  said  lo  tranquilly. 

Camilla  Van  Arsdale  kissed  his  cheek,  gave  him  a  little,  half- 
motherly  pat,  said,  "Keep  on  making  me  proud  of  you,"  in  her 
even,  confident  tones,  and  pushed  him  out  of  the  door. 

Ban  and  lo  walked  down  the  long  platform  in  a  thoughtful 
silence  which  disconcerted  neither  of  them.  lo  led  the  way  out 
of  it. 

"At  half -past  four,"  she  stated,  "I  had  a  glass  of  milk  and  one 
cracker." 

"Where  do  you  want  to  breakfast?" 

"Thanking  you  humbly,  sir,  for  your  kind  invitation,  the 
nearer  the  better.  Why  not  here? " 


378  Success 

They  found  a  table  in  the  well-appointed  railroad  restaurant 
and  ordered.  Over  her  honey-dew  melon  lo  asked  musingly : 

"What  do  you  suppose  she  thinks  of  us?" 

"  Miss  Camilla  ?  What  should  she  think  ?  " 

"What,  indeed?  What  do  we  think,  ourselves?" 

"Has  it  any  importance?"  he  asked  gloomily. 

"And  that's  rather  rude,"  she  chided.  "Anything  that  I 

think  should,  by  courtesy,  be  regarded  as  important Ban, 

how  often  have  we  seen  each  other?" 

"Since  I  came  to  New  York,  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"Nine  times." 

"So  many?  And  how  much  have  we  talked  together?  All 
told ;  in  time,  I  mean." 

"Possibly  a  solid  hour.  Not  more." 

"It  hasn't  made  any  difference,  has  it?  There's  been  no 
interruption.  We've  never  let  the  thread  drop.  We've  never 
lost  touch.  Not  really." 

"No.  We've  never  lost  touch." 

"You  needn't  repeat  it  as  if  it  were  a  matter  for  mourning 
and  repentance.  I  think  it  rather  wonderful. .  . .  Take  our  return 
from  the  train,  all  the  way  down  without  a  word.  Were  you 
sulking,  Ban?" 

"No.  You  know  I  wasn't." 

"Of  course  I  know  it.  It  was  simply  that  we  didn't  need  to 
talk.  There's  no  one  else  in  the  world  like  that.  . . .  How  long  is 
it  ?  Three  years  —  four  —  more  than  four  years. 

'We  twain  once  well  in  sunder 
What  will  the  mad  gods  do 
For  hate  with  me,  I  wond  — ' " 

"My  God,  lo!  Don't!" 

"Oh,  Ban ;  I'm  sorry  !  Have  I  hurt  you?  I  was  dreaming  back 
into  the  old  world." 

"And  I've  been  trying  all  these  years  not  to." 

"Is  the  reality  really  better?  No ;  don't  answer  that !  I  don't 
want  you  to.  Answer  me  something  else.  About  Betty  Raleigh." 

"What  about  her?" 


Fulfillment  379 


"  If  I  were  a  man  I  should  find  her  an  irresistible  sort  of  person. 
Entirely  aside  from  her  art.  Are  you  going  to  marry  her,  Ban?" 

"No." 

"Tell  me  why  not." 

"For  one  reason  because  she  doesn't  want  to  marry  me." 

"Have  you  asked  her?  It's  none  of  my  business.  But  I 
don't  believe  you  have.  Tell  me  this ;  would  you  have  asked  her, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  —  if  Number  Three  had  never  been  wrecked 
in  the  cut?  You  see  the  old  railroad  terms  you  taught  me  still 
cling.  Would  you?" 

"How  do  I  know?  If  the  world  hadn't  changed  under  my  feet, 
and  the  sky  over  my  head  — " 

"Is  it  so  changed?"  Do  the  big  things,  the  real  things,  ever 
change?. .  .Don't  answer  that,  either.  Ban,  if  I'll  go  out  of  your 
life  now,  and  stay  out,  honestly,  will  you  marry  Betty  Raleigh 
and  —  and  live  happy  ever  after? " 

"Would  you  want  me  to?" 

"Yes.  Truly.  And  I'd  hate  you  both  forever." 

"Betty  Raleigh  is  going  to  marry  some  one  else." 

"No!  I  thought  —  people  said —  Are  you  sorry,  Ban?" 

"Not  for  myself.  I  think  he's  the  wrong  man  for  her." 

"Yes ;  that  would  be  a  change  of  the  earth  underfoot  and  the 
sky  overhead,  if  one  cared,"  she  mused.  "And  I  said  they 
didn't  change." 

"Don't  they!"  retorted  Banneker  bitterlv.  "You  are  mar 
ried." 

"I  have  been  married,"  she  corrected,  with  an  air  of  amiable 
rectification.  "It  was  a  wise  thing  to  do.  Everybody  said  so. 
It  didn't  last.  Nobody  thought  it  would.  I  didn't  really  think  so 
myself." 

"Then  why  in  Heaven's  name  — " 

"Oh,  let's  not  talk  about  it  now.  Some  other  time,  perhaps. 
Say  next  time  we  meet ;  five  or  six  months  from  now.  ...  No ;  I 
won't  tease  you  any  more,  Ban.  It  won't  be  that.  It  won't  be 
long.  I'll  tell  you  the  truth :  I'd  heard  a  lot  about  you  and  Betty 
Raleigh,  and  I  got  to  know  her  and  I  hoped  it  would  be  a  go. 
I  did;  truly,  Ban.  I  owed  you  that  chance  of  happiness.  I 


380  Success 

took  mine,  you  see ;  only  it  wasn't  happiness  that  I  gambled  for. 
Something  else.  Safety.  The  stakes  are  usually  different  for  men 
and  women.  So  now  you  know.  .  . .  Well,  if  you  don't,  you've 
grown  stupid.  And  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it  any  more.  I 
want  to  talk  about  —  about  The  Patriot.  I  read  it  this  morning 
while  I  was  waiting ;  your  editorial.  Ban"  —  she  drew  a  derisive 
mouth  —  "I  was  shocked." 

"What  was  it?  Politics?"  asked  Banneker,  who,  turning  out 
his  editorials  several  at  a  time,  seldom  bothered  to  recall  on  what 
particular  day  any  one  was  published.  "You  wouldn't  be  ex 
pected  to  like  our  politics." 

"Not  politics.  It  is  about  Harvey  Wheelwright." 

Banneker  was  amused.  "The  immortally  popular  Wheel 
wright.  We're  serializing  his  new  novel,  'Satiated  with  Sin,'  in 
the  Sunday  edition.  My  idea.  It'll  put  on  circulation  where  we 
most  need  it." 

"Is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  exploit  him  as  if  he  were 
the  foremost  living  novelist?" 

"  Certainly.  Besides,  he  is,  in  popularity." 

"But,  Ban;  his  stuff  is  awful!  If  this  latest  thing  is  like  the 
earlier.   ["Worse,"  murmured  Banneker.]  And  you're  writing 
about  him  as  if  he  were  —  well,  Conrad  and  Wells  rolled  into 
"one." 

"He's  better  than  that,  for  the  kind  of  people  that  read  him. 
It's  addressed  to  them,  that  editorial.  All  the  stress  is  on  his 
piety,  his  popularity,  his  power  to  move  men's  minds ;  there  isn't 
a  word  that  even  touches  on  the  domain  of  art  or  literary  skill." 

"It  has  that  effect." 

"Ah!  That's  my  art,"  chuckled  Banneker.  "That's  literary 
skill,  if  you  choose !" 

.     "Do  you  know  what  I  call  it?  I  call  it  treason." 
'    His  mind  flashed  to  meet  hers.  She  read  comprehension  in  his 
changed  face  and  the  shadow  in  her  eyes,  lambent  and  profound, 
deepened. 

"Treason  to  the  world  that  we  two  made  for  ourselves  out 
there,"  she  pursued  evenly. 

"You  shattered  it." 


Fulfillment  381 


"To  the  Undying  Voices." 

"You  stilled  them,  for  me." 

"Oh,  Ban!  Not  that!"  A  sudden,  little  sob  wrenched  at  her 
throat.  She  half  thrust  out  a  hand  toward  him,  and  withdrew  it, 
to  cup  and  hold  her  chin  in  the  old,  thoughtful  posture  that 
plucked  at  his  heart  with  imperious  memories.  "Don't  they  sing 
for  you  any  more?"  begged  lo,  wistful  as  a  child  forlorn  for  a 
dream  of  fairies  dispelled. 

"I  wouldn't  let  them.  They  all  sang  of  you." 

She  sighed,  but  about  the  tender  corners  of  her  lips  crept  the 
tremor  of  a  smile.  Instantly  she  became  serious  again. 

"If  you  still  heard  the  Voices,  you  could  never  have  written 
that  editorial.  .  . .  What  I  hate  about  it  is  that  it  has  charm ;  thaf 
it  imparts  charm  to  a  —  to  a  debasing  thing." 

"Oh,  come,  lo!"  protested  the  victim  of  this  criticism,  more 
easily.  "Debasing?  Why,  Wheelwright  is  considered  the  most 
uplifting  of  all  our  literary  morality-improvers." 

lo  amplified  and  concluded  her  critique  briefly  and  viciously. ' 
"A  slug!" 

"  No ;  seriously.  I'm  not  sure  that  he  doesn't  inculcate  a  lot  of 
good  in  his  way.  At  least  he's  always  on  the  side  of  the  angels." 

"What  kind  of  angels?  Tinsel  seraphs  with  paint  on  their 
cheeks,  playing  rag-time  harps  out  of  tune!  There's  a  sickly 
slaver  of  sentiment  over  everything  he  touches  that  would  make 
any  virtue  nauseous." 

"Don't  you  want  a  job  as  a  literary  critic r  Our  Special 
Reviewer,  Miss  lo  Wei  —  Mrs.  Delavan  Eyre,"  he  concluded,  in 
a  tone  from  which  the  raillery  had  flattened  out. 

At  that  bald  betrayal,  lo's  color  waned  slightly.  She  lifted 
her  water-glass  and  sipped  at  it.  When  she  spoke  again  it  was 
as  if  an  inner  scene  had  been  shifted. 

"What  did  you  come  to  New  York  for?" 

"Success." 

"As  in  all  the  fables.  And  you've  found  it.  It  was  almost  too 
easy,  wasn't  it?" 

"Indeed,  not.  It  was  touch  and  go." 

"Would  you  have  come  but  for  me?" 


382  Success 

He  stared  at  her,  considering,  wondering. 

"Remember,"  she  adjured  him;  "success  was  my  prescrip 
tion.  Be  flattering  for  once.  Let  me  think  that  I'm  responsible 
for  the  miracle." 

"Perhaps.  I  couldn't  stay  out  there  —  afterward.  The  loneli 
ness. .." 

"I  didn't  want  to  leave  you  loneliness,"  she  burst  out  passion 
ately  under  her  breath.  "I  wanted  to  leave  you  memory  and 
ambition  and  the  determination  to  succeed." 

"For  what?" 

"Oh,  no;  no!"  She  answered  the  harsh  thought  subtending 
his  query.  "Not  for  myself.  Not  for  any  pride.  I'm  not  cheap, 
Ban." 

"No;  you're  not  cheap." 

"I  would  have  kept  my  distance.  ...  It  was  quite  true  what  I 
said  to  you  about  Betty  Raleigh.  It  was  not  success  alone  that  I 
wanted  for  you ;  I  wanted  happiness,  too.  I  owed  you  that  — 
after  my  mistake." 

He  caught  up  the  last  word.  "You've  admitted  to  yourself, 
then,  that  it  was  a  mistake?" 

"I  played  the  game,"  she  retorted.  "One  can't  always  play 
right.  But  one  can  always  play  fair." 

"Yes;  I  know  your  creed  of  sportsmanship.  There  are  worse 
religions." 

"Do  you  think  I  played  fair  with  you,  Ban?  After  that  night 
on  the  river?" 

He  was  mute. 

'Do  you  know  why  I  didn't  kiss  you  good-bye  in  the  station? 
Not  really  kiss  you,  I  mean,  as  I  did  on  the  island  ?  " 

"No." 

"Because,  if  I  had,  I  should  never  have  had  the  strength  to  go 
away."  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  Her  voice  fell  to  a  half  whisper. 
"You  understood,  on  the  island ? . . .  What  I  meant ? " 

"Yes." 

"But  you  didn't  take  me.  I  wonder.  Ban,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  light  flashing  in  our  eyes  and  giving  us  hope. . .  ?" 

"How  can  I  tell?  I  was  dazed  with  the  amazement  and  the 


Fulfillment  383 


glory  of  it  —  of  you.    But  —  yes.    My  God,  yes!   And  then? 
Afterward?" 

"Could  there  have  been  any  afterward?"  she  questioned 
dreamily.  "  Would  we  not  just  have  waited  for  the  river  to  sweep 
us  up  and  carry  us  away  ?  What  other  ending  could  there  have 
been,  so  fitting?" 

•     "Anyway,"  he  said  with  a  sudden  savage  jealousy,  "what 
ever  happened  you  would  not  have  gone  away  to  marry  Eyre." 

"Should  I  not?  I'm  by  no  means  sure.  You  don't  understand 
much  of  me,  my  poor  Ban." 

"How  could  you ! "  he  burst  out.  "Would  that  have  been  — " 

"Oh,  I  should  have  told  him,  of  course.  I'd  have  said,  'Del, 
there's  been  another  man,  a  lover.'  One  could  say  those  things 
to  him." 

"Would  he  have  married  you?" 

"You  wouldn't,  would  you?"  she  smiled.  "All  or  nothing, 
Ban,  for  you.  About  Del,  I  don't  know."  She  shrugged  dainty 
shoulders.  "I  shouldn't  have  much  cared." 

"And  would  you  have  come  back  to  me,  lo?" 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  say '  Yes '  ?  You  do  want  me  to  say  '  Yes/ 
don't  you,  my  dear?  How  can  I  tell?.  .  .Sooner  or  later,  I  sup 
pose.  Fate.  The  irresistible  current.  I  am  here  now." 

"lo."  He  leaned  to  her  across  the  little  table,  his  somber 
regard  holding  hers.  "Why  did  you  tell  Camilla  Van  Arsdale 
that  you  would  never  divorce  Eyre?" 

"Because  it's  true." 

"But  why  tell  her?  So  that  it  should  come  back  to  me?" 

She  answered  him  straight  and  fearlessly.  "Yes.  I  thought  it 
would  be  easier  for  you  to  hear  from  her." 

"Did  you?"  He  sat  staring  past  her  at  visions.  It  was  not 
within  Banneker's  code,  his  sense  of  fair  play  in  the  game,  to 
betray  to  lo  his  wonderment  (shared  by  most  of  her  own  set)  that 
she  should  have  endured  the  affront  of  Del  Eyre's  openly  flagi 
tious  life,  even  though  she  had  herself  implied  some  knowledge  of 
it  in  her  assumption  that  a  divorce  could  be  procured.  However, 
lo  met  his  reticence  with  characteristic  candor. 

"Of  course  I  know  about  Del.  We  have  a  perfect  understand- 


384  Success 

ing.  He's  agreed  to  maintain  the  outward  decencies,  from  now  on. 
I  don't  consider  that  I've  the  right  to  ask  more.  You  see,  I 
shouldn't  have  married  him .  .  .  even  though  he  understood  that  I 
wasn't  really  in  love  with  him.  We're  friends ;  and  we're  going 
to  remain  friends.  Just  that.  Del's  a  good  sort,"  she  added  with 
a  hint  of  pleading  the  cause  of  a  misunderstood  person.  "He'd 
give  me  my  divorce  in  a  minute ;  even  though  he  still  cares  — 
in  his  way.  But  there's  his  mother.  She's  a  sort  of  latter-day 
saint;  one  of  those  rare  people  that  you  respect  and  love  in 
equal  parts ;  the  only  other  one  I  know  is  Cousin  Willis  Enderby. 
She's  an  invalid,  hopeless,  and  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  for  me  to 
divorce  Del  would  poison  the  restof  her  life.  So  I  won't.  I  can't." 

"She  won't  live  forever,"  muttered  Banneker. 

"No.  Not  long,  perhaps."  There  was  pain  and  resolution  in 
lo's  eyes  as  they  were  lifted  to  meet  his  again.  "There's  another 
reason.  I  can't  tell  even  you,  Ban.  The  secret  isn't  mine.  . . .  I'm 
sorry." 

"  Haven't  you  any  work  to  do  to-day  ?  "  she  asked  after  a  pause, 
with  a  successful  effect  of  lightness. 

He  roused  himself,  settled  the  check,  and  took  her  to  her  car, 
parked  near  by. 

"  Where  do  you  g  3  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Back  to  the  country." 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again ?" 

"I  wonder,"  said  lo. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PANEM  ET  CTRCENSES  ;  bread  and  the  Big  Show.  The  diagnosis  of 
the  satyr-like  mathematician  had  been  accurate.  That  same 
method  whereby  the  tyrants  of  Rome  had  sought  to  beguile  the 
restless  and  unthinking  multitude,  Banneker  adopted  to  capture 
and  lead  the  sensation-avid  metropolitan  public  through  his 
newspaper.  As  a  facture,  a  creation  made  to  the  mind  of  the 
creator,  The  Patriot  was  Banneker's  own.  True,  Marrineal  re 
served  full  control.  But  Marrineal,  after  a  few  months  spent  in 
anxious  observation  of  his  editor's  headlong  and  revolutionary 
method,  had  taken  the  sales  reports  for  his  determinative  guide 
and  decided  to  give  the  new  man  full  sway. 

Circulation  had  gone  up  as  water  rises  in  a  tube  under  irresist 
ible  pressure  from  beneath.  Nothing  like  it  had  ever  been  known 
in  local  journalism.  Barring  some  set-back,  within  four  years  of 
the  time  when  Banneker's  introductory  editorial  appeared,  the 
paper  would  have  eclipsed  all  former  records.  In  less  than  two 
years  it  had  climbed  to  third  place,  and  already  Banneker's 
salary,  under  the  percentage  agreement,  was,  in  the  words  of  the 
alliterative  Gardner,  whose  article  describing  The  House  With 
Three  Eyes  and  its  owner  had  gone  forth  on  the  wings  of  a  far- 
spreading  syndicate,  "a  stupendous  stipend." 

Banneker's  editorials  pervaded  and  gave  the  keynote.  With 
sublime  self-confidence  he  had  adopted  the  untried  scheme  of 
having  no  set  and  determined  place  for  the  editorial  department. 
Sometimes,  his  page  appeared  in  the  middle  of  the  paper ;  some 
times  on  the  back ;  and  once,  when  a  most  promising  scheme  of 
municipal  looting  was  just  about  to  be  put  through,  he  fired  his 
blast  from  the  front  sheet  in  extra  heavy,  double-leaded  type, 
displacing  an  international  yacht  race  and  a  most  titillating 
society  scandal  with  no  more  explanation  than  was  to  be  found 
in  the  opening  sentence : 

"This  is  more  important  to  YOU,  Mr.  New  Yorker,  than  any 
other  news  in  to-day's  issue," 


386  Success 

"  Where  Banneker  sits,"  Russell  Edmonds  was  wont  to  remark 
between  puffs,  "is  the  head  of  the  paper." 

"Let  'em  look  for  the  stuff,"  said  Banneker  confidently. 
"They'll  think  all  the  more  of  it  when  they  find  it." 

Often  he  used  inset  illustrations,  not  so  much  to  give  point  to 
his  preachments,  as  to  render  them  easier  of  comprehension  to 
the  unthinking.  And  always  he  sought  the  utmost  of  sensational 
ism  in  caption  and  in  type,  employing  italics,  capitals,  and  even 
heavy-face  letters  with  an  effect  of  detonation. 

"Jollies  you  along  until  he  can  see  the  white  of  your  mind, 
and  then  fires  his  slug  into  your  head,  point-blank,"  Edmonds 
said. 

With  all  this  he  had  the  high  art  to  keep  his  style  direct, 
unaffected,  almost  severe.  No  frills,  no  literary  graces,  no  flashes 
of  wit  except  an  occasional  restrained  touch  of  sarcasm:  the 
writing  was  in  the  purest  style  and  of  a  classic  simplicity.  The 
typical  reader  of  The  Patriot  had  a  friendly  and  rather  patron 
izing  feeling  for  the  editorials :  they  were  generally  deemed  quite 
ordinary,  "common  as  an  old  shoe"  (with  an  approving  accent 
from  the  commentator),  comfortably  devoid  of  the  intricate 
elegancies  practiced  by  Banneker's  editorial  compeers.  So  they 
were  read  and  absorbed,  which  was  all  that  their  writer  hoped  or 
wished  for  them.  He  was  not  seeking  the  bubble,  reputation, 
but  the  solid  satisfaction  of  implanting  ideas  in  minds  hitherto 
unaroused  to  mental  processes,  and  training  the  resultant 
thought  in  his  chosen  way  and  to  eventual  though  still  vague 
purposes. 

"They're  beginning  to  imitate  you,  Ban,"  commented  Russell 
Edmonds  in  the  days  of  The  Patriot's  first  surprising  upward 
leap.  "  Flattery  of  your  peers." 

"Let  'em  imitate,"  returned  Banneker  indifferently. 

"Yes ;  they  don't  come  very  near  to  the  original.  It's  a  funda 
mental  difference  in  style." 

"It's  a  fundamental  difference  in  aim." 

"Aim?" 

"They're  writing  at  and  for  their  owners;  to  make  good  with 
the  boss.  I'm  writing  at  my  public." 


Fulfillment  387 


"I  believe  you're  right.  It's  more  difficult,  though,  isn't  it, 
to  write  for  a  hundred  thousand  people  than  at  one  ?  " 

"Not  if  you  understand  them  from  study  at  first  hand,  as  I  do. 
That's  why  the  other  fellows  are  five  or  ten-thousand-dollar 
men,"  said  Banneker,  quite  without  boastfulness  "while  I'm  — " 

"A  fifty- thousand-dollar  a  year  man,"  supplied  Edmonds. 

"  Well,  getting  toward  that  figure.  I'm  on  the  target  with  the 
editorials  and  I'm  going  to  hold  on  it.  But  our  news  policy  is 
different.  We  still  wobble  there." 

"  What  do  you  want !  Look  at  the  circulation.  Isn't  that  good 
enough  ?  " 

"No.  Every  time  I  get  into  a  street-car  and  see  a  passenger 
reading  some  other  paper,  I  feel  that  we've  missed  fire,"  returned 
Banneker  inexorably.  "Pop,  did  you  ever  see  an  actress  make 
up?" 

"I've  a  general  notion  of  the  process."  j 

"  Find  me  a  man  who  can  make  up  news  ready  and  rouged  to 
go  before  the  daily  footlights  as  an  actress  makes  up  her  face." 

The  veteran  grunted.  "Not  to  be  found  on  Park  Row." 

"Probably  not.  Park  Row  is  too  deadly  conventional." 

One  might  suppose  that  the  environment  of  religious  journal 
ism  would  be  equally  conventional.  Yet  it  was  from  this  depart 
ment  that  the  "find"  eventually  came,  conducted  by  Edmonds. 
Edgar  Severance,  ten  years  older  than  Banneker,  impressed  the 
guiding  spirit  of  The  Patriot  at  first  sight  with  a  sense  of  inner 
certitude  and  serenity  not  in  the  least  impaired  by  his  shabbiness 
which  had  the  redeeming  merit  of  being  clean. 

"You're  not  a  newspaper  man?"  said  Banneker  after  the 
introduction.  "What  are  you?" 

"I'm  a  prostitute,"  answered  the  other  equably. 

Banneker  smiled.  "Where  have  you  practiced  your  pro 
fession?" 

''As  assistant  editor  of  Guidance.  I  write  the  blasphemous  edi 
torials  which  are  so  highly  regarded  by  the  sweetly  simple  souls 
that  make  up  our  clientele;  the  ones  which  weekly  give  gratuitous 
advice  to  God." 

"Did  Mr.  Edmonds  find  you  there?" 


388  Success 

"No,"  put  in  the  veteran;  "I  traced  him  down  through  some 
popular  scientific  stuff  in  the  Boston  Sunday  Star." 

"Fake,  all  of  it,"  proffered  Severance.  "Otherwise  it  wouldn't 
be  popular." 

"  Is  that  your  creed  of  journalism  ?  "  asked  Banneker  curiously. 

"Largely." 

"Why  come  to  The  Patriot,  then?  It  isn't  ours." 

Severance  raised  his  fine  eyebrows,  but  contented  himself 
with  saying :  "  Isn't  it  ?  However,  I  didn't  come.  I  was  brought." 
He  indicated  Edmonds. 

"He  gave  me  more  ideas  on  news-dressing,"  said  the  veteran, 
"than  I'd  pick  up  in  a  century  on  the  Row." 

"Ideas  are  what  we're  after.  Where  do  you  get  yours,  Mr. 
Severance,  since  you  are  not  a  practical  newspaper  man?" 

"From  talking  with  people,  and  seeing  what  the  newspapers 
fail  to  do." 

"Where  were  you  before  you  went  on  Guidance?" 

"Instructor  at  Harvard." 

"And  you  practiced  your  —  er  —  specified  profession  there, 
too?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  was  partly  respectable  then. 

"Why  did  you  leave?" 

"Drink." 

"Ah?  You  don't  build  up  much  of  a  character  for  yourself  as 
prospective  employee." 

"If  I  join  The  Patriot  staff  I  shall  probably  disappear  once  a 
month  or  so  on  a  spree." 

"Why  should  you  join  The  Patriot  staff?  That  is  what  you 
fail  to  make  clear  to  me." 

"Reference,  Mr.  Russell  Edmonds,"  returned  the  other  negli 
gently. 

"You  two  aren't  getting  anywhere  with  all  this  chatter," 
growled  the  reference.  "  Come,  Severance ;  talk  turkey,  as  you 
did  to  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  talk,"  objected  the  other  in  his  gentle,  schol 
arly  accents.  "I  want  to  look  about :  to  diagnose  the  trouble  in 
the  news  department." 


Fulfillment  389 

"What  do  you  suspect  the  trouble  to  be?"  asked  Banneker. 

"Oh,  the  universal  difficulty.  Lack  of  brains." 

Banneker  laughed,  but  without  relish.  "We  pay  enough  for 
what  we've  got.  It  ought  to  be  good  quality." 

"You  pay  not  wisely  but  too  well.  My  own  princely  emolu 
ment  as  a  prop  of  piety  is  thirty-five  dollars  a  week." 

"Would  you  come  here  at  that  figure?" 

"I  should  prefer  forty.  For  a  period  of  six  weeks,  on  trial." 

"As  Mr.  Edmonds  seems  to  think  it  worth  the  gamble,  I'll 
take  you  on.  From  to-day,  if  you  wish.  Go  out  and  look  around." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  interposed  Edmonds.  "What's  his  title? 
How  is  his  job  to  be  defined  ?  " 

"Call  him  my  representative  in  the  news  department.  I'll 
pay  his  salary  myself.  If  he  makes  good,  I'll  more  than  get  it 
back." 

Mr.  Severance's  first  concern  appeared  to  be  to  make  himself 
popular.  In  the  anomalous  position  which  he  occupied  as  repre 
sentative  between  two  mutually  jealous  departments,  this  was 
no  easy  matter.  But  his  quiet,  contained  courtesy,  his  tentative, 
almost  timid,  way  of  offering  suggestions  or  throwing  out  hints 
which  subsequently  proved  to  have  definite  and  often  surprising 
value,  his  retiring  willingness  to  waive  any  credit  in  favor  of 
whosoever  might  choose  to  claim  it,  soon  gave  him  an  assured 
if  inconspicuous  position.  His  advice  was  widely  sought.  As  an 
immediate  corollary  a  new  impress  made  itself  felt  in  the  daily 
columns.  With  his  quick  sensitiveness  Banneker  apprehended 
the  change.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  paper  was  becoming 
feminized  in  a  curious  manner. 

"Is  it  a  play  for  the  women?"  he  asked  Severance  in  the 
early  days  of  the  development. 

"No." 

"You're  certainly  specializing  on  femaleness." 

"For  the  men.  Not  the  women.  It's  an  old  lure." 

Banneker  frowned.  "And  not  a  pretty  one." 

"Effective,  though.  I  bagged  it  from  the  Police  Gazette.  Have 
you  ever  had  occasion  to  note  the  almost  unvarying  cover  appeal 
of  that  justly  popular  weekly?" 


r 

390  Success 

11  Half-dressed  women,"  said  Banneker,  whose  early  researches 
had  extended  even  to  those  levels. 

"Exactly.  With  all  they  connote.  Thereby  attracting  the 
crude  and  roving  male  eye.  Of  course,  we  must  do  the  trick  more 
artistically  and  less  obviously.  But  the  pictured  effect  is  the 
thing.  I'm  satisfied  of  that.  By  the  way,  I  am  having  a  little 
difficulty  with  your  art  department.  Your  man  doesn't  adapt 
himself  to  new  ideas." 

"I've  thought  him  rather  old-fashioned.  What  do  you  want 
to  do?" 

"Bring  in  a  young  chap  named  Capron  whom  I've  run  upon. 
He  used  to  be  an  itinerant  photographer,  and  afterward  had  a 
try  at  the  movies,  but  he's  essentially  a  news  man.  Let  him  read 
the  papers  for  pictures." 

Capron  came  on  the  staff  as  an  insignificant  member  with  an 
insignificant  salary.  Personally  a  man  of  blameless  domesticity, 
he  was  intellectually  and  professionally  a  sex-monger.  He  con 
ceived  the  business  of  a  news  art  department  to  be  to  furnish 
pictured  Susannahs  for  the  delectation  of  the  elders  of  the  reading 
public.  His  flair  for  femininity  he  transferred  to  The  Patriot's 
pages,  according  to  a  simple  and  direct  formula ;  the  greater  the 
display  of  woman,  the  surer  the  appeal  and  therefore  the  sale. 
Legs  and  bosoms  he  specialized  for  in  illustrations.  Bathing- 
suits  and  boudoir  scenes  were  his  particular  aim,  although  any 
picture  with  a  scandal  attachment  in  the  accompanying  news 
would  serve,  the  latter,  however,  to  be  handled  in  such  manner 
as  invariably  to  point  a  moral.  Herein  his  team  work  with 
Severance  was  applied  in  high  perfection. 

"Should  Our  Girls  Become  Artists'  Models"  was  one  of  their 
early  and  inspired  collaborations,  a  series  begun  with  a  line  of 
"beauty  pictures"  and  spun  out  by  interviews  with  well  or  less 
known  painters  and  illustrators,  giving  rich  opportunity  for 
displays  of  nudity,  the  moral  being  pointed  by  equally  lavish 
interviews  with  sociologists  and  prominent  Mothers  in  Israel. 
Although  at  least  ninety-nine  per  cent  of  all  professional  posing 
is  such  as  would  not  be  out  of  place  at  a  church  sociable,  the 
casual  reader  of  the  Capron-Severance  presentation  would  have 


Fulfillment  391 

supposed  that  a  lace  veil  was  the  extent  of  the  protection  allowed 
to  a  female  model  between  sheer  nakedness  and  the  outer  artis 
tic  world.  Following  this  came  a  department  devoted  (ostensi 
bly)  to  physical  culture  for  women.  It  was  conducted  by  the 
proprietress  of  a  fashionable  reducing  gymnasium,  who  was 
allowed,  as  this  was  a  comparatively  unimportant  feature,  to 
supply  the  text  subject  to  Severance's  touching-up  ingenuity; 
but  the  models  were  devised  and  posed  by  Capron.  They  were 
extremely  shapely  and  increasingly  expressive  in  posture  and 
arrangement  until  they  attained  a  point  where  the  post-office 
authorities  evinced  symptoms  of  rising  excitement  —  though 
not  the  type  of  excitement  at  which  the  Art  Expert  was  aiming  — 
when  the  series  took  a  turn  for  the  milder,  and  more  purely 
athletic,  and,  by  the  same  token,  less  appetizing ;  and  presently 
faded  away  in  a  burst  of  semi-editorial  self-laudation  over  The 
Patriot's  altruistic  endeavors  to  improve  the  physical  status  of 
the  "future  mothers  of  the  nation." 

Failing  any  other  excuse  for  their  careful  lubricities,  the  team 
could  always  conjure  up  an  enticing  special  feature  from  an 
imaginary  foreign  correspondent,  aimed  direct  at  the  family 
circle  and  warning  against  the  "Moral  Pitfalls  of  Paris,"  or  the 
"Vampires  of  High  Life  in  Vienna."  The  invariable  rule  was 
that  all  sex-stuff  must  have  a  moral  and  virtuous  slant.  Thus 
was  afforded  to  the  appreciative  reader  a  double  satisfaction, 
physical  and  ethical,  pruriency  and  piety. 

It  was  Capron  who  devised  the  simple  but  effective  legend 
which  afterward  became,  in  a  thousand  variants,  a  stock  part  of 
every  news  item  interesting  enough  to  merit  graphic  treatment, 
"The  X  Marks  the  Spot  Where  the  Body  Was  Found."  He, 
too,  adapted,  from  a  design  in  a  drug-store  window  picturing  a 
sponge  fisherman  in  action,  the  cross-section  illustration  for 
news.  Within  a  few  weeks  he  had  displaced  the  outdated  art 
editor  and  was  in  receipt  of  a  larger  salary  than  the  city  editor, 
who  dealt  primarily  in  news,  not  sensations,  panem  not  circenses. 

Sensationalism  of  other  kinds  was  spurred  to  keep  pace  with 
the  sex  appeal.  The  news  columns  became  constantly  more 
lurid.  They  shrieked,  yelled,  blared,  shrilled,  and  boomed  the 


392  Success 

scandals  and  horrors  of  the  moment  in  multivocal,  multigraphic 
clamor,  tainting  the  peaceful  air  breathed  by  everyday  people 
going  about  their  everyday  business,  with  incredible  blatancies 
which  would  be  forgotten  on  the  morrow  in  the  excitement  of 
fresh  percussions,  though  the  cumulative  effect  upon  the  public 
mind  and  appetite  might  be  ineradicable.  "Murderer  Dabbles 
Name  in  Bloody  Print."  "  Wronged  Wife  Mars  Rival's  Beauty." 
"Society  Woman  Gives  Hundred-Dollar-Plate  Dinner."  "Sci 
entist  Claims  Life  Flickers  in  Mummy."  "Cocktails,  Wine, 
Drug,  Ruin  for* Lovely  Girl  of  Sixteen."  "Financier  Resigns 
After  Sprightly  Scene  at  Long  Beach."  Severance  developed  a 
literary  genius  for  excitant  and  provocative  word-combinations 
in  the  headings;  "Love-Slave,"  "Girl-Slasher,"  "Passion- 
Victim,"  "Death-Hand,"  "Vengeance-Oath,"  "Lust-Fiend." 
The  articles  chosen  for  special  display  were  such  as  lent  them 
selves,  first,  to  his  formula  for  illustration,  and  next  to  captions 
which  thrilled  with  the  sensations  of  crime,  mystery,  envy  of  the 
rich  and  conspicuous,  or  lechery,  half  concealed  or  unconcealed. 
For  facts  as  such  he  cared  nothing.  His  conception  of  news  was 
as  a  peg  upon  which  to  hang  a  sensation.  "Love  and  luxury  for 
the  women :  money  and  power  for:the  men,"  was  his  broad  work 
ing  scheme  for  the  special  interest  of  the  paper,  with,  of  course, 
crime  and  the  allure  of  the  flesh  for  general  interest.  A  jungle 
man,  perusing  one  day's  issue  (supposing  him  to  have  been  com 
petent  to  assimilate  it),  would  have  judged  the  civilization  pic 
tured  therein  too  grisly  for  his  unaccustomed  nerves  and  fled 
in  horror  back  to  the  direct,  natural,  and  uncomplicated  raids 
and  homicides  of  the  decent  wilds. 

The  Great  Gaines,  descending  for  once  from  the  habitual 
classicism  of  his  phraseology,  described  The  Patriot  of  Sever 
ance's  production  in  two  terse  and  sufficient  words. 

"  It  itches." 

That  itch  irked  Banneker  almost  unendurably  at  times.  He 
longed  to  be  relieved  of  it ;  to  scratch  the  irritant  Severance  clean 
off  the  skin  of  The  Patriot.  But  Severance  was  too  evidently 
valuable.  Banneker  did  go  so  far  as  to  protest. 

"Aren't  you  rather  overdoing  this  thing,  Severance?" 


Fulfillment  393 

"Which  thing?  We're  overdoing  everything;  hence  the 
growth  of  the  paper." 

Banneker  fell  back  upon  banality.  "Well,  we've  got  to  draw 
the  line  somewhere." 

Severance  bestowed  upon  the  other  his  well-bred  and  delicate 
smile.  "  Exactly  my  principle.  I'm  for  drawing  the  line  every 
issue  and  on  every  page,  if  there's  room  for  it.  lNulla  dies  sine 
linea.'  The  line  of  appeal  to  the  sensations,  whether  it's  a  pretty 
face  or  a  caption  that  jumps  out  and  grabs  you  by  the  eye.  I 
want  to  make  'em  gloat." 

"I  see.  You  were  in  earnest  more  or  less  when  in  our  first 
talk,  you  defined  your  profession." 

Severance  waved  a  graceful  hand.  "  Prostitution  is  the  pro 
fession  of  all  successful  journalism  which  looks  at  itself  hon 
estly.  Why  not  play  the  pander  frankly  ?  —  among  ourselves,  of 
course.  Perhaps  I'm  offending  you,  Mr.  Banneker." 

"You're  interesting  me.  But,  'among  ourselves'  you  say. 
You're  not  a  newspaper  man ;  you  haven't  the  traditions." 

"Therefore  I  haven't  the  blind  spots.  I'm  not  fooled  by  the 
sentimentalism  of  the  profession  or  the  sniveling  claims  of  being 
an  apostle  of  public  enlightenment.  If  enlightenment  pays,  all 
very  well.  But  it's  circulation,  not  illumination,  that's  the  prime 
desideratum.  Frankly,  I'd  feed  the  public  gut  with  all  it  can  and 
will  stand." 

"Even  to  the  extent  of  keeping  the  Tallman  divorce  scandal 
on  the  front  page  for  a  week  consecutively.  You  won't  pretend 
that,  as  news,  it's  worth  it." 

"Give  me  a  definition  of  news,"  retorted  the  expert.  "The 
Tallman  story  won't  alter  the  history  of  the  world.  But  it  has 
its  —  well,  its  specialized  value  for  our  purposes." 

"You  mean,"  said  Banneker,  deliberately  stimulating  his  own 
growing  nausea,  "that  it  makes  the  public's  mind  itch." 

"It's  a  pretty  filthy  and  scabby  sort  of  animal,  the  public,  Mr. 
Banneker.  We're  not  trying  to  reform  its  morals  in  our  news 
columns,  I  take  it." 

"No.  No;  we're  not.  Still - 

"That's  the  province  of  your  editorials,"  went  on  the  apostle 


394  Success 

of  titillation  smoothly.  "You  may  in  time  even  educate  them  up 
to  a  standard  of  decency  where  they  won't  demand  the  sort  of 
thing  we're  giving  them  now.  But  our  present  business  with  the 
news  columns  is  to  catch  them  for  you  to  educate." 

"Quite  so  !  You  lure  them  into  the  dive  where  I  wait  to  preach 
them  a  sermon." 

After  that  conversation  Banneker  definitely  decided  that 
Severance's  activities  must  be  curbed.  But  when  he  set  about  it, 
he  suffered  an  unpleasant  surprise.  Marrineal,  thoroughly  ap 
prised  of  the  new  man's  activities  (as  he  was,  by  some  occult 
means  of  his  own,  of  everything  going  on  in  the  office),  stood  fast 
by  the  successful  method,  and  let  Banneker  know,  tactfully  but 
unmistakably,  that  Severance,  who  had  been  transferred  to  the 
regular  payroll  at  a  highly  satisfactory  figure,  was  to  have  a  free 
hand.  So  the  ex-religious  editor  continued  to  stroll  leisurely 
through  his  unauthoritative  and  influential  routine,  contribut 
ing  his  commentary  upon  the  news  as  it  flowed  in.  He  would 
saunter  over  to  the  make-up  man's  clotted  desk,  run  his  eye 
over  the  dummy  of  the  morrow's  issue,  and  inquire ; 

"Wasn't  there  a  shooting  scrape  over  a  woman  in  a  big  West- 
Side  apartment  ? . .  .  Being  kept  by  the  chap  that  was  shot, 
wasn't  she?.  .  .Oh,  a  bank  clerk?.  .  .Well,  that's  a  pretty  dull- 
looking  seventh  page.  Why  not  lift  this  text  of  the  new  Suburban 
Railways  Bill  and  spread  the  shooting  across  three  columns? 
Get  Sanderson  to  work  out  a  diagram  and  do  one  of  his  filmy  line 
drawings  of  the  girl  lying  on  the  couch.  And  let's  be  sure  to  get 
the  word  'Banker'  into  the  top  head." 

Or  he  would  deliver  a  practical  lecture  from  a  text  picked  out  of 
what  to  a  less  keen-scented  news-hound  might  have  appeared  an 
unpromising  subject. 

"Can't  we  round  out  that  disappearance  story  a  little;  the 
suburban  woman  who  hasn't  been  seen  since  she  went  to  New 
York  three  days  ago?  Get  Capron  to  fake  up  a  picture  of  the 
home  with  the  three  children  in  it  grouped  around  Bereaved 
Husband,  and  —  here,  how  would  something  like  this  do  for 
caption:  *  "  Mamma,  Mamma!  Come  Back!"  Sob  Tiny  Tots.' 
The  human  touch.  Nothing  like  a  bit  of  slush  to  catch 


Fulfillment  395 

the  women.  And  we've  been  going  a  little  shy  on  sentiment 
lately." 

The  "human  touch,"  though  it  became  an  office  joke,  also 
took  its  place  as  an  unwritten  law.  Severance's  calm  and  imper 
sonal  cynicism  was  transmuted  into  a  genuine  enthusiasm  among 
the  copy-readers.  Headlining  took  on  a  new  interest,  whetted 
by  the  establishment  of  a  weekly  prize  for  the  most  attractive 
caption.  Maximum  of  sensationalism  was  the  invariable  test. 

Despite  his  growing  distaste  for  the  Severance  cult,  Banneker 
was  honest  enough  to  admit  that  the  original  stimulus  dated 
from  the  day  when  he  himself  had  injected  his  personality 
and  ideas  into  the  various  departments  of  the  daily.  He  had 
established  the  new  policy ;  Severance  had  done  no  more  than 
inform  it  with  the  heated  imaginings  and  provocative  pictorial 
quality  inherent  in  a  mind  intensely  if  scornfully  apprehensive 
of  the  unsatiated  potential  depravities  of  public  taste.  It  was 
Banneker's  hand  that  had  set  the  strings  vibrating  to  a  new  tune ; 
Severance  had  only  raised  the  pitch,  to  the  nth  degree  of  sensa 
tionalism.  And,  in  so  far  as  the  editorial  page  gave  him  a  lead, 
the  disciple  was  faithful  to  the  principles  and  policies  of  his 
chief.  The  practice  of  the  news  columns  was  always  informed 
by  a  patently  defensible  principle.  It  pccaned  the  virtues  of  the 
poor  and  lowly ;  it  howled  for  the  blood  of  the  wicked  and  the 
oppressor ;  it  was  strident  for  morality,  the  sanctity  of  the  home, 
chastity,  thrift,  sobriety,  the  People,  religion,  American  suprem 
acy.  As  a  corollary  of  these  pious  standards  it  invariably  took 
sides  against  wealth  and  power,  sentimentalized  every  woman 
who  found  her  way  into  the  public  prints,  whether  she  had  per 
petrated  a  murder  or  endowed  a  hospital,  simpered  and  slavered 
over  any  "heart-interest  story"  of  childhood  ("blue-eyed  tot 
stuff"  was  the  technical  office  term),  and  licked  reprehensive  but 
gustful  lips  over  divorce,  adultery,  and  the  sexual  complications. 
It  peeped  through  keyholes  of  print  at  the  sanctified  doings  of 
Society  and  snarled  while  it  groveled.  All  the  shibboleths  of  a 
journalism  which  respected  neither  itself,  its  purpose,  nor  its 
readers  echoed  from  every  page.  And  this  was  the  reflex  of  the 
work  and  thought  of  Errol  Banneker,  who  intimately  respected 


396  Success 

himself,  and  his  profession  as  expressed  in  himself.  There  is  much 
of  the  paradoxical  in  journalism  —  as,  indeed,  in  the  life  which  it 
distortedly  mirrors. 

Every  other  newspaper  in  town  caught  the  contagion ;  became 
by  insensible  degrees  more  sensational  and  pornographic.  The 
Patriot  had  started  a  rag-time  pace  (based  on  the  same  funda 
mental  instinct  which  the  rhythm  of  rag-time  expresses,  if  the 
psychologists  are  correct)  and  the  rest  must,  perforce,  adopt  it. 
Such  as  lagged  in  this  Harlot's  Progress  suffered  a  loss  of  circu 
lation,  journalism's  most  condign  penalty.  For  there  are  certain 
appetites  which,  once  stimulated,  must  be  appeased.  Otherwise 
business  wanes ! 

Out  of  conscious  nothing,  as  represented  by  the  now  moribund 
News,  there  was  provoked  one  evening  a  large,  round,  middle- 
aged,  smiling,  bespectacled  apparition  who  named  himself  as 
Rudy  Shefler  and  invited  himself  to  a  job.  Marrineal  had  sent 
him  to  Severance,  and  Severance,  ever  tactful,  had  brought  him 
to  Banneker.  Russell  Edmonds  being  called  in,  the  three  sat  in 
judgment  upon  the  Big  Idea  which  Mr.  Shefler  had  brought  with 
him  and  which  was : 

"Give  'em  a  laugh." 

"The  potentialities  of  humor  as  a  circulation  agency,"  opined 
Severance  in  his  smoothest  academic  voice,  "have  never  been 
properly  exploited." 

"A  laugh  on  every  page  where  there  ain't  a  thrill,"  pursued 
Shefler  confidently. 

"You  find  some  of  our  pages  dull?"  asked  Banneker,  always 
interested  in  any  new  view. 

"Well,  your  market  page  ain't  no  scream.  You  gotta  admit 
it." 

"People  don't  usually  want  to  laugh  when  they're  studying 
the  stock  market,"  growled  Edmonds. 

"Surprise  'em,  then.  Give  'em  a  jab  in  the  ribs  and  see  how 
they  like  it.  Pictures.  Real  comics.  Anywhere  in  the  paper  that 
there's  room  for  'em." 

"There's  always  a  cartoon  on  the  editorial  page,"  pointed  out 
Banneker. 


Fulfillment  397 


"  Cartoon  ?  What  does  that  get  you  ?  A  cartoon's  an  editorial, 
ain't  it?" 

Russell  Edmonds  shot  a  side  glance  at  Banneker,  meaning : 
"This  is  no  fool.  Watch  him." 

"Makes  'em  think,  don't  it?"  pursued  the  visitor.  "If  it 
tickles  'em,  that's  on  the  side.  It  gets  after  their  minds,  makes 
'em  work  for  what  they  get.  That's  an  effort.  See?" 

"All  right.  What's  your  aim?" 

"Not  their  brains.  I  leave  that  to  Mr.  Banneker's  editorials. 
I'm  after  the  laugh  that  starts  down  here."  He  laid  hand  upon 
his  rotund  waistcoat.  "The  belly-laugh." 

"The  anatomy  of  anti-melancholy,"  murmured  Severance. 
"Valuable." 

"You're  right,  it's  valuable,"  declared  its  proponent.  "It's 
money ;  that's  what  it  is.  Watch  'em  at  the  movies.  When  their 
bellies  begin  to  shake,  the  picture's  got  'em." 

"How  would  you  produce  this  desirable  effect?"  asked  Sever 
ance. 

"No  trouble  to  show  goods.  I'm  dealing  with  gents,  I  know. 
This  is  all  under  your  shirt  for  the  present,  if  you  don't  take  up 
the  scheme." 

From  a  portfolio  which  he  had  set  in  a  corner  he  produced  a 
sheaf  of  drawings.  They  depicted  the  adventures,  mischievous, 
predatory,  or  criminal,  of  a  pair  of  young  hopefuls  whose  physi 
ognomies  and  postures  were  genuinely  ludicrous 

"Did  you  draw  these?"  asked  Banneker  in  surprise,  for  the 
draughtsmanship  was  expert. 

"No.  Hired  a  kid  artist  to  do  'em.  I  furnished  the  idea." 

"Oh,  you  furnished  the  idea,  did  you?"  queried  Edmonds. 
"And  where  did  you  get  it? " 

With  an  ineffably  satisfied  air,  Mr.  Sheffer  tapped  his  bullet 
head. 

"You  must  be  older  than  you  look,  then.  Those  figures  of  the 
kids  are  redrawn  from  a  last-century  German  humorous  classic, 
'Max  und  Moritz.'  I  used  to  be  crazy  over  it  when  I  was  a 
youngster.  My  grandfather  brought  it  to  me  from  Europe,  and 
made  a  translation  for  us  youngsters." 


398  Success 

"  Sure  !  Those  pictures  'd  make  a  reformer  laugh.  I  picked  up 
the  book  in  German  on  an  Ann  Street  sidewalk  stand,  caught  the 
Big  Idea  right  then  and  there ;  to  Americanize  the  stuff  and  — " 

"For  'Americanize,'  read  'steal/"  commented  Edmonds. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  crooked  in  this,"  protested  the  other  with 
sincerity.  "The  stuff  ain't  copyrighted  here.  I  looked  that  up 
particularly." 

"Quite  true,  I  believe,"  confirmed  Severance.  "It's  an  open 
field." 

"I  got  ten  series  mapped  out  to  start.  Call  'em  'The  Trouble- 
hunter  Twins,  Ruff  and  Reddy.'  If  they  catch  on,  the  artist  and 
me  can  keep  'em  goin'  forever.  And  they'll  catch." 

"I  believe  they  will,"  said  Severance. 

"Smeared  across  the  top  of  a  page  it'll  make  a  business  man 
laugh  as  hard  as  a  kid.  I  know  business  men.  I  was  one,  myself. 
Sold  bar  fixtures  on  the  road  for  four  years.  And  my  best  selling 
method  was  the  laughs  I  got  out  of  'em.  Used  to  take  a  bit  of 
chalk  and  do  sketches  on  the  table-tops.  So  I  know  what  makes 
'em  laugh.  Belly-laughs.  You  make  a  business  man  laugh  that 
way,  and  you  get  his  business.  It  ain't  circulation  alone;  it's 
advertising  that  the  stuff  will  bring  in.  Eh  ?  " 

"What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Banneker?"  asked  Severance. 

"It's  worth  trying,"  decided  Banneker  after  thought.  "You 
don't  think  so,  do  you,  Pop?" 

"Oh,  go  ahead !"  returned  Edmonds,  spewing  forth  a  mouth 
ful  of  smoke  as  if  to  expel  a  bad  taste.  "What's  larceny  among 
friends?" 

"But  we're  not  taking  anything  of  value,  since  there's  no  copy 
right  and  any  one  can  grab  it,"  pointed  out  the  smooth  Severance. 

Thus  there  entered  into  the  high-tension  atmosphere  of  the 
sensationalized  Patriot  the  relaxing  quality  of  humor.  Under  the 
ingenuous  and  acquisitive  Sheffer,  whose  twins  achieved  immedi 
ate  popularity,  it  developed  along  other  lines.  Sheffer  —  who 
knew  what  makes  business  men  laugh  —  pinned  his  simple  faith 
to  three  main  subjects,  convulsive  of  the  diaphragmatic  muscles, 
building  up  each  series  upon  the  inherent  humor  to  be  extracted 
from  physical  violence  as  represented  in  the  perpetrations  and 


Fulfillment  399 


punishments  of  Ruff  and  Reddy,  marital  infidelity  as  mirrored  in 
the  stratagems  and  errancies  of  an  amorous  ape  with  an  aged  and 
jealous  spouse,  and  the  sure-fire  familiarity  of  aged  minstrel  jokes 
(mother-in-law,  country  constable,  young  married  cookery,  and 
the  like)  refurbished  in  pictorial  serials  through  the  agency  of 
two  uproarious  and  imbecilic  vulgarians,  Bonehead  and  But- 
tinsky. 

Children  cried  for  them,  and  laughed  to  exhaustion  over  them. 
Not  less  did  the  mentally  exhausted  business  man  writhe  abdom 
inally  over  their  appeal.  Spread  across  the  top  of  three  pages 
they  wrung  the  profitable  belly-laugh  from  growing  thousands 
of  new  readers.  If  Banneker  sometimes  had  misgivings  that  the 
educational  influence  of  The  Patriot  was  not  notably  improved 
by  all  this  instigation  of  crime  and  immorality  made  subject  for 
mirth  in  the  mind  of  developing  youth,  he  stifled  them  in  the 
thought  of  increased  reading  public  for  his  own  columns.  Fur 
thermore,  it  was  not  his  newspaper,  anyway. 

But  the  editorial  page  was  still  peculiarly  his  own,  and  with 
that  clarity  of  view  which  he  never  permitted  personal  considera 
tions  to  prejudice,  Banneker  perceived  that  it  was  falling  below 
pitch.  Or,  rather,  that,  while  it  remained  static,  the  rest  of  the 
paper,  under  the  stimulus  of  Severance,  Capron,  ShefTer,  and,  in 
the  background  but  increasingly  though  subtly  assertive,  Marri- 
neal,  had  raised  its  level  of  excitation.  Change  his  editorials  he 
would  not.  Nor  was  there  need ;  the  response  to  them  was  too 
widespread  and  fervent,  their  following  too  blindly  fanatic,  the 
opposition  roused  by  them  too  furious  to  permit  of  any  doubt  as 
to  their  effectiveness.  But  that  portion  of  the  page  not  taken  up 
by  his  writings  and  the  cartoon  (which  was  often  based  upon  an 
idea  supplied  by  him),  was  susceptible  of  alteration,  of  keying- 
up.  Casting  about  him  for  the  popular  note,  the  circus  appeal,  he 
started  a  "  signed-article  "  department  of  editorial  contributions 
to  which  he  invited  any  and  all  persons  of  prominence  in  what 
ever  line.  The  lure  of  that  universal  egotism  which  loves  to  see 
itself  in  the  public  eye  secured  a  surprising  number  of  names. 
Propagandists  were  quick  to  appreciare  the  opportunity  of  The 
Patriot's  wide  circulation  for  furthering  their  designs,  selfish  or 


400  Success 


altruistic.  To  such  desirables  as  could  not  be  caught  by  other 
lures,  Banneker  offered  generous  payment. 

It  was  on  this  latter  basis  that  he  secured  a  prize,  in  the  person 
of  the  Reverend  George  Bland,  ex-revivalist,  ex-author  of  pious 
stories  for  the  young,  skilled  dealer  in  truisms,  in  wordy  plati 
tudes  couched  largely  in  plagiarized  language  from  the  poets  and 
essayists,  in  all  the  pseudo-religious  slickeries  wherewith  men's 
souls  are  so  easily  lulled  into  self-satisfaction.  The  Good,  the 
True,  the  Beautiful ;  these  were  his  texts,  but  the  real  god  of  his 
worship  was  Success.  This,  under  the  guise  of  Duty  ("man's 
God-inspired  ambition  to  be  true  to  his  best  possibilities"),  he 
preached  day  in  and  day  out  through  his  "Daily  Help"  in  The 
Patriot :  Be  guided  by  me  and  you  will  be  good :  Be  good  and 
you  will  be  prosperous :  Be  prosperous  and  you  will  be  happy. 
On  an  adjoining  page  there  were  other  and  far  more  specific 
instructions  as  to  how  to  be  prosperous  and  happy,  by  backing 
Speedfoot  at  10  to  i  in  the  first  race,  or  Flashaway  at  5  to  2  in  the 
third.  Sometimes  the  Reverend  Bland  inveighed  convincingly 
against  the  evils  of  betting.  Yet  a  cynic  might  guess  that  the 
tipsters'  recipes  for  being  prosperous  and  happy  (and  therefore, 
by  a  logical  inversion,  good)  were  perhaps  as  well  based  and 
practical  as  the  reverend  moralist's.  His  correspondence,  surest 
indication  of  editorial  following,  grew  to  be  almost  as  large  as 
Banneker's.  Severance  nicknamed  him  "the  Oracle  of  Boobs," 
and  for  short  he  became  known  as  the  "  Booblewarbler,"  for  there 
were  times  when  he  burst  into  verse,  strongly  reminiscent  of  the 
older  hymnals.  This  he  resented  hotly  and  genuinely,  for  he  was 
quite  sincere ;  as  sincere  as  Sheffer,  in  his  belief  in  himself.  But 
he  despised  Sheffer  and  feared  Severance,  not  for  what  the  latter 
represented,  but  for  the  cynical  honesty  of  his  attitude.  In  retort 
for  Severance's  stab,  he  dubbed  the  pair  Mephistopheles  and 
Falstaff,  which  was  above  his  usual  felicitousness  of  characteri 
zation.  Sheffer  (who  read  Shakespeare  to  improve  his  mind,  and 
for  ideas !)  was  rather  flattered. 

Even  the  platitudinous  Bland  had  nis  practical  inspirations ; 
if  they  had  not  been  practical,  they  would  not  have  been  Eland's. 
One  of  these  was  an  analysis  of  the  national  business  character. 


Fulfillment  401 


"We  Americans,"  he  wrote,  "are  natural  merchandisers.  We 
care  less  for  the  making  of  a  thing  than  for  the  selling  of  it. 
Salesmanship  is  the  great  American  game.  It  calls  forth  all  our 
native  genius ;  it  is  the  expression  of  our  originality,  our  inven 
tiveness,  our  ingenuity,  our  idealism,"  and  so  on,  for  a  full  column 
slathered  with  deadly  and  self-betraying  encomiums.  For  the 
Reverend  Bland  believed  heartily  that  the  market  was  the  high 
est  test  of  humankind.  He  would  rather  sell  a  thing  than  make 
it !  In  fact,  anything  made  with  any  other  purpose  than  to  sell 
would  probably  not  be  successful,  and  would  fail  to  make  its 
author  prosperous ;  therefore  it  must  be  wrong.  Not  the  creator, 
but  the  salesman  was  the  modern  evangel. 

"The  Booblewarbler  has  given  away  the  game,"  commented 
Severance  with  his  slight,  ironic  smile,  the  day  when  this  naive 
effusion  appeared.  "He's  right,  of  course.  But  he  thinks  he's 
praising  when  he's  damning." 

Banneker  was  disturbed.  But  the  flood  of  letters  which  came 
in  promptly  reassured  him.  The  Reverend  editorializer  was 
hailed  broadcast  as  the  Messiah  of  the  holy  creed  of  Salesman 
ship,  of  the  high  cult  of  getting  rid  of  something  for  more  than  it 
is  worth.  He  was  organized  into  a  lecture  tour ;  his  department  in 
the  paper  waxed  ever  greater.  Banneker,  with  his  swift  apprecia 
tion  of  a  hit,  followed  the  lead  with  editorials ;  hired  authors  to 
write  short  stories  glorifying  the  ennobled  figure  of  the  Salesman, 
his  smartness,  his  strategy,  his  ruthless  trickery,  his  success. 
And  the  salesmanhood  of  the  nation,  in  trains,  in  hotel  lobbies,  at 
the  breakfast  table  with  its  Patriot  propped  up  flanking  the  egg 
and  coffee,  rose  up  to  call  him  blessed  and  to  add  to  his  income. 

Personal  experiences  in  achieving  success  were  a  logical  se 
quence  to  this ;  success  in  any  field,  from  running  a  city  as  set 
forth  by  His  Honor  the  Mayor,  to  becoming  a  movie  star,  by 
all  the  movie  stars  or  aspirants  whom  their  press-agents  could 
crowd  into  the  paper.  A  distinguished  novelist  of  notably  high 
blood-pressure  contributed  a  series  of  thoughtful  essays  on  "  How 
to  be  Irresistible  in  Love,"  and  a  sentimental  pugilist  indulged 
in  reminiscences  (per  a  hired  pen  from  the  cheap  magazine  field) 
upon  "The  Influence  of  my  Mother  on  my  Career,"  An  imitator 


402  Success 

of  Banneker  developed  a  daily  half-column  of  self -improvement 
and  inspiration  upon  moral  topics,  achieving  his  effects  by  capital 
izing  all  the  words  which  otherwise  would  have  been  too  feeble 
or  banal  to  attract  notice,  thereby  giving  an  air  of  sublimated 
importance  to  the  mildly  incomprehensible.  Nine  tenths  of  The 
Patriot's  editorial  readers  believed  that  they  were  following  a 
great  philosopher  along  the  path  of  the  eternal  profundities.  To 
give  a  touch  of  science,  an  amateur  astronomer  wrote  stirring 
imaginative  articles  on  interstellar  space,  and  there  were  occa 
sional  " authoritative"  pronouncements  by  men  of  importance 
in  the  political,  financial,  or  intellectual  worlds,  lifted  from  pub 
lic  speeches  or  old  publications.  The  page,  if  it  did  not  actually 
itch,  buzzed  and  clanged.  But  above  the  composite  clamor  rose 
ever  the  voice  of  Banneker,  clear,  serene,  compelling. 
And  Banneker  took  his  pay  for  it,  deeming  it  well  earned. 


CHAPTER  V 

LIFE  was  broadening  out  before  Banneker  into  new  and  golden 
persuasions.  He  had  become  a  person  of  consequence,  a  force  to 
be  reckoned  with,  in  the  great,  unheeding  city.  By  sheer  resolute 
thinking  and  planning,  expressed  and  fulfilled  in  unsparing  labor, 
he  had  made  opportunity  lead  to  opportunity  until  his  position 
was  won.  He  was  courted,  sought  after,  accepted  by  representa 
tive  people  of  every  sort,  their  interest  and  liking  answering  to 
his  broad  but  fine  catholicity  of  taste  in  human  relationships. 
If  he  had  no  intimates  other  than  Russell  Edmonds,  it  was 
because  he  felt  no  need  of  them. 

He  had  found  lo  again. 

Prophecies  had  all  failed  in  the  matter  of  his  rise.  He  thought, 
with  pardonable  exultation,  of  how  he  had  confuted  them,  one 
after  another.  Cressey  had  doubted  that  one  could  be  at  the 
same  time  a  successful  journalist  and  a  gentleman;  Horace 
Vanney  had  deemed  individuality  inconsistent  with  newspaper 
writing ;  Tommy  Burt  and  other  jejune  pessimists  of  the  craft 
had  declared  genuine  honesty  incompatible  with  the  higher  and 
more  authoritative  phases  of  the  profession.  Almost  without  set 
plan  and  by  an  inevitable  progress,  as  it  now  seemed  to  him,  he 
had  risen  to  the  most  conspicuous,  if  not  yet  the  most  important, 
position  on  Park  Row,  and  had  suffered  no  conscious  compromise 
of  standards,  whether  of  self-respect,  self-assertion,  or  honor. 

Had  he  ever  allowed  monetary  considerations  seriously  to  con 
cern  him,  he  might  have  been  troubled  by  an  untoward  and  not 
easily  explicable  phenomenon.  His  bank  account  consistently 
failed  to  increase  in  ratio  to  his  earnings.  In  fact,  what  with 
tempting  investments,  the  importunities  of  a  highly  luxurious 
taste  in  life  hitherto  unsuspected,  and  an  occasional  gambling 
flyer,  his  balance  was  precarious,  so  to  speak.  With  the  happy 
optimism  of  one  to  whom  the  rosy  present  casts  an  intensified 
glow  upon  the  future,  he  confidently  anticipated  a  greatly  and 
steadily  augmented  income,  since  the  circulation  of  The  Patriot 
was  now  the  terror  of  its  rivals.  That  any  radical  alteration  could 


404  Success 

be  made  in  his  method  of  recompense  did  not  occur  to  him.  So 
completely  had  he  identified  himself  with  The  Patriot  that  he 
subconsciously  regarded  himself  as  essential  to  its  prosperity  if 
not  to  its  actual  existence.  Therein  he  was  supported  by  all  the 
expert  opinion  of  Park  Row.  Already  he  had  accepted  one  modi 
fication  of  his  contract,  and  his  takings  for  new  circulation  were 
now  twenty-five  cents  per  unit  per  year  instead  of  fifty  cents  as 
formerly. 

But  Tertius  Marrineal  and  his  business  manager,  a  shrewd 
and  practical  gentleman  named  Haring,  had  done  a  vast  deal  of 
expert  figuring,  as  a  result  of  which  the  owner  strolled  into  his 
editor's  office  one  noon  with  his  casual  air  of  having  nothing  else 
to  do,  and  pleasantly  inquired : 

"Busy?" 

"If  I  weren't,  I  wouldn't  be  worth  much,"  returned  Banneker, 
in  a  cheerful  tone. 

"Well,  if  you  can  spare  me  fifteen  minutes  — " 

"  Sit  down."  Banneker  swiveled  his  chair  to  face  the  other. 

' '  I  needn't  tell  you  that  the  paper  is  a  success ;  a  big  success," 
began  Marrineal. 

"You  needn't.  But  it's  always  pleasant  to  hear." 

"Possibly  too  big  a  success.  What  would  you  say  to  letting 
circulation  drop  for  a  while? " 

"What!"  Banneker  felt  a  momentary  queer  sensation  near 
the  pit  of  his  stomach.  If  the  circulation  dropped,  his  income 
followed  it.  But  could  Marrineal  be  serious?" 

"The  fact  is  we've  reached  the  point  where  more  circulation  is 
a  luxury.  We're  printing  an  enormous  paper,  and  wood-pulp 
prices  are  going  up.  If  we  could  raise  our  advertising  rates ;  — 
but  Mr.  Haring  thinks  that  three  raises  a  year  is  all  the  traffic 
will  bear.  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Banneker,  that  the  paper  isn't  making 
money.  We've  run  ahead  of  ourselves.  You're  swallowing  all  the 
profits." 

Banneker's  inner  voice  said  warningly  to  Banneker,  "So  that's 
it."  Banneker's  outer  voice  said  nothing. 

"Then  there's  the  matter  of  advertising.  Your  policy  is  not 
helping  us  much  there." 


Fulfillment  405 


"The  advertising  is  increasing." 

"Not  in  proportion  to  circulation.  Nothing  like." 

"If  the  proper  ratio  isn't  maintained,  that  is  the  concern  of  the 
advertising  department,  isn't  it?" 

"Very  much  the  concern.  Will  you  talk  with  Mr.  Haring 
about  it?" 

"No." 

Early  in  Banneker's  editorship  it  had  been  agreed  that  he 
should  keep  free  of  any  business  or  advertising  complications. 
Experience  and  the  warnings  of  Russell  Edmonds  had  told  him 
that  the  only  course  of  editorial  independence  lay  in  totally 
ignoring  the  effect  of  what  he  might  write  upon  the  profits  and 
prejudices  of  the  advertisers,  who  were,  of  course,  the  principal 
support  of  the  paper.  Furthermore,  Banneker  heartily  despised 
about  half  of  the  advertising  which  the  paper  carried ;  dubious 
financial  proffers,  flamboyant  mercantile  copy  of  diamond  deal 
ers,  cheap  tailors,  installment  furniture  profiteers,  the  lure  of 
loan  sharks  and  race-track  tipsters,  and  the  specious  and  deadly 
fallacies  of  the  medical  quacks.  Appealing  as  it  did  to  an  igno 
rant  and  "easy"  class  of  the  public  ("Banneker's  First-Read 
ers,"  Russell  Edmonds  was  wont  to  call  them),  The  Patriot 
offered  a  profitable  field  for  all  the  pitfall-setters  of  print.  The 
less  that  Banneker  knew  about  them  the  more  comfortable 
would  he  be.  So  he  turned  his  face  away  from  those  columns. 

The  negative  which  he  returned  to  Marrineal's  question  was 
no  more  or  less  than  that  astute  gentleman  expected. 

"We  carried  an  editorial  last  week  on  cigarettes,  'There's  a 
Yellow  Stain  on  Your  Boy's  Fingers  —  Is  There  Another  on  his 
Character?'" 

"  Yes.  It  is  still  bringing  in  letters." 

"It  is.  Letters  of  protest." 

"  From  the  tobacco  people  ?  " 

"Exactly.  Mr.  Banneker,  don't  you  regard  tobacco  as  a  legiti 
mate  article  of  use?" 

"Oh,  entirely.  Couldn't  do  without  it,  myself." 

"\Vhy  attack  it,  then,  in  your  column?" 

"Because  my  column,"  answered  Banneker  with  perceptible 


406  Success 

emphasis  on  the  possessive,  "  doesn't  believe  that  cigarettes  are 
good  for  boys." 

"  Nobody  does.  But  the  effect  of  your  editorial  is  to  play  into 
the  hands  of  the  anti-tobacco  people.  It's  an  indiscriminate 
onslaught  on  all  tobacco.  That's  the  effect  of  it." 

"  Possibly." 

"And  the  result  is  that  the  tobacco  people  are  threatening  to 
cut  us  off  from  their  new  advertising  appropriation." 

"Out  of  my  department,"  said  Banneker  calmly. 

Marrineal  was  a  patient  man.  He  pursued.  "You  have  of 
fended  the  medical  advertisers  by  your  support  of  the  so-called 
Honest  Label  Bill." 

"It's  a  good  bill." 

"Nearly  a  quarter  of  our  advertising  revenue  is  from  the 
patent-medicine  people." 

"Mostly  swindlers." 

"They  pay  your  salary,"  Marrineal  pointed  out. 

"Not  mine,"  said  Banneker  vigorously.  "The  paper  pays  my 
salary." 

"Without  the  support  of  the  very  advertisers  that  you  are 
attacking,  it  couldn't  continue  to  pay  it.  Yet  you  decline  to 
admit  any  responsibility  to  them." 

"Absolutely.  To  them  or  for  them." 

"I  confess  I  can't  see  your  basis,"  said  the  reasonable  Marri 
neal.  "Considering  what  you  have  received  in  income  from  the 
paper  — 

"I  have  worked  for  it." 

"Admitted.  But  that  you  should  absorb  practically  all  the 
profits  —  isn't  that  a  little  lopsided,  Mr.  Banneker?" 

"What  is  your  proposition,  Mr.  Marrineal?" 

Marrineal  put  his  long,  delicate  fingers  together,  tip  to  tip 
before  his  face,  and  appeared  to  be  carefully  reckoning  them  up. 
About  the  time  when  he  might  reasonably  have  been  expected  to 
have  audited  the  total  and  found  it  to  be  the  correct  eight  with 
two  supplementary  thumbs,  he  ejaculated : 

"Cooperation." 

"Between  the  editorial  page  and  the  advertising  department?" 


Fulfillment  407 


"Perhaps  I  should  have  said  profit-sharing.  I  propose  that  in 
lieu  of  our  present  arrangement,  based  upon  a  percentage  on  a 
circulation  which  is  actually  becoming  a  liability  instead  of  an 
asset,  we  should  reckon  your  salary  on  a  basis  of  the  paper's  net 
earnings."  As  Banneker,  sitting  with  thoughtful  eyes  fixed  upon 
him,  made  no  comment,  he  added:  "To  show  that  I  do  not 
underestimate  your  value  to  the  paper,  I  propose  to  pay  you 
fifteen  per  cent  of  the  net  earnings  for  the  next  three  years.  By 
the  way,  it  won't  be  necessary  hereafter,  for  you  to  give  any  time 
to  the  news  or  Sunday  features." 

"No.  You've  got  out  of  me  about  all  you  could  on  that  side," 
observed  Banneker. 

"The  policy  is  established  and  successful,  thanks  largely  to 
you.  I  would  be  the  last  to  deny  it." 

"What  do  you  reckon  as  my  probable  income  under  the  pro 
posed  arrangement  ?  " 

"Of  course,"  answered  the  proprietor  apologetically,  "it 
would  be  somewhat  reduced  this  year.  If  our  advertising  revenue 
increases,  as  it  naturally  should,  your  percentage  might  easily 
rise  above  your  earnings  under  the  old  arrangement." 

"I  see,"  commented  Banneker  thoughtfully.  "You  propose  to 
make  it  worth  my  while  to  walk  warily.  As  the  pussy  foots  it, 
so  to  speak." 

"  I  ask  you  to  recognize  the  fairness  of  the  proposition  that  you 
conduct  your  column  in  the  best  interests  of  the  concern — which, 
under  the  new  arrangement,  would  also  be  your  own  best  inter 
ests." 

"Clear.  Limpidly  clear,"  murmured  Banneker.  "And  if  I  de 
cline  the  new  basis,  what  is  the  alternative  ?  " 

"Cut  down  circulation,  and  with  it,  loss." 

"And  the  other,  the  real  alternative?"  queried  the  imper 
turbable  Banneker. 

Marrineal  smiled,  with  a  touch  of  appeal  in  his  expression. 

"Frankness  is  best,  isn't  it?"  propounded  the  editor.  "I 
don't  believe,  Mr.  Marrineal,  that  this  paper  can  get  along  with 
out  me.  It  has  become  too  completely  identified  with  my  edi 
torial  idea.  On  the  other  hand,  I  can  get  along  without  it." 


408  Success 

"By  accepting  the  offer  of  the  Mid- West  Evening  Syndicate, 
beginning  at  forty  thousand  a  year?" 

"You're  well  posted,"  said  Banneker,  startled. 

"Of  necessity.  What  would  you  suppose?" 

"Your  information  is  fairly  accurate." 

"I'm  prepared  to  make  you  a  guarantee  of  forty  thousand,  as  a 
minimum." 

"I  shall  make  nearer  sixty  than  fifty  this  year." 

"At  the  expense  of  a  possible  loss  to  the  paper.  Come,  Mr. 
Banneker ;  the  fairness  of  my  offer  is  evident.  A  generous  guar 
antee,  and  a  brilliant  chance  of  future  profits." 

"And  a  free  hand  with  my  editorials?" 

"Surely  that  will  arrange  itself." 

"Precisely  what  I  fear."  Banneker  had  been  making  some 
swift  calculations  on  his  desk-blotter.  Now  he  took  up  a  blue 
pencil  and  with  a  gesture,  significant  and  not  without  dramatic 
effect,  struck  it  down  through  the  reckoning.  "No,  Mr.  Marri- 
neal.  It  isn't  good  enough.  I  hold  to  the  old  status.  When  our 
contract  is  out  — 

"Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Banneker.  Isn't  there  a  French  proverb, 
something  about  no  man  being  as  indispensable  as  he  thinks  ? " 
Marrineal's  voice  was  never  more  suave  and  friendly.  "Before 
you  make  any  final  decision,  look  these  over."  He  produced 
from  his  pocket  half  a  dozen  of  what  appeared  to  be  Patriot 
editorial  clippings. 

The  editor  of  The  Patriot  glanced  rapidly  through  them.  A 
puzzled  frown  appeared  on  his  face. 

"When  did  I  write  these?" 

"You  didn't." 

"Who  did?" 

tl  T    » 

"They're  dam'  good." 
"Aren't  they!" 
"Also,  they're  dam'  thievery." 

"Doubtless  you  mean  flattery.  In  its  sincerest  form.  Imita 
tion." 

"Perfect.  I  could  believe  I'd  written  them  myself." 


Fulfillment  409 


"Yes;  I've  been  a  very  careful  student  of  The  Patriot's  edi 
torial  style." 

"The  Patriot's!  Mine!" 

"Surely  not.  You  would  hardly  contend  seriously  that,  hav 
ing  paid  the  longest  price  on  record  for  the  editorials,  The  Patriot 
has  not  a  vested  right  in  them  and  their  style." 

"  I  see,"  said  Banneker  thoughtfully.  Inwardly  he  cursed  him 
self  for  the  worst  kind  of  a  fool ;  the  fool  who  underestimates  the 
caliber  of  his  opponent. 

"Would  you  say,"  continued  the  smooth  voice  of  the  other, 
"  that  these  might  be  mistaken  for  your  work  ?  " 

"Nobody  would  know  the  difference.  It's  robbery  of  the  rank 
est  kind.  But  it's  infernally  clever." 

"I'm  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you  over  a  definition,  Mr. 
Banneker,"  said  Marrineal.  He  leaned  a  little  forward  with  a 
smile  so  frank  and  friendly  that  it  quite  astonished  the  other. 
"And  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go,  either,"  he  pursued.  "You 
need  me  and  I  need  you.  I'm  not  fool  enough  to  suppose  that  the 
imitation  can  ever  continue  to  be  as  good  as  the  real  thing. 
We'll  make  it  a  fifty  thousand  guarantee,  if  you  say  so.  And,  as 
for  your  editorial  policy  —  well,  I'll  take  a  chance  on  your  seeing 
reason.  After  all,  there's  plenty  of  earth  to  prance  on  without 
always  treading  on  people's  toes.  .  .  .  Well,  don't  decide  now. 
Take  your  time  to  it."  He  rose  and  went  to  the  door.  There  he 
turned,  flapping  the  loose  imitations  in  his  hands. 

"Banneker,"  he  said  chuckling,  "aren't  they  really  dam* 
good ! "  and  vanished. 

In  that  moment  Banneker  felt  a  surge  of  the  first  real  liking  he 
had  ever  known  for  his  employer.  Marrineal  had  been  purely 
human  for  a  flash. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  first  revulsion  after  the  proprietor  had 
left,  Banneker's  unconquered  independence  rose  within  him, 
jealous  and  clamant.  He  felt  repressions,  claims,  interferences 
potentially  closing  in  upon  his  pen,  also  an  undefined  dread  of  the 
sharply  revealed  overseer.  That  a  force  other  than  his  own  mind 
and  convictions  should  exert  pressure,  even  if  unsuccessful,  upon 
his  writings,  was  intolerable.  Better  anything  than  that.  The 


410  Success 


Mid- West  Syndicate,  he  knew,  would  leave  him  absolutely  un- 
trammeled.  He  would  write  the  general  director  at  once. 

In  the  act  of  beginning  the  letter,  the  thought  struck  and 
stunned  him  that  this  would  mean  leaving  New  York.  Going  to 
live  in  a  Middle- Western  city,  a  thousand  miles  outside  of  the 
orbit  in  which  moved  lo  Eyre  ! 

He  left  the  letter  unfinished,  and  the  issue  to  the  fates. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PUT  to  the  direct  question,  as,  for  example,  on  the  witness  stand, 
Mr.  Ely  Ives  would,  before  his  connection  with  Tertius  Marri- 
neal,  have  probably  identified  himself  as  a  press-agent.  In  that 
capacity  he  had  acted,  from  time  to  time,  for  a  railroad  with 
many  axes  to  grind,  a  widespread  stock-gambling  enterprise,  a 
minor  political  ring,  a  liquor  combination,  and  a  millionaire 
widow  from  the  West  who  innocently  believed  that  publicity,  as 
manipulated  by  Mr.  Ives,  could  gain  social  prestige  for  her  in 
the  East. 

In  every  phase  of  his  employment,  the  ex-medical  student  had 
gathered  curious  and  valuable  lore.  In  fact  he  was  one  of  those 
acquisitive  persons  who  collect  and  hoard  scandals,  a  miser  of 
private  and  furtive  information.  His  was  the  zeal  of  the  born  col 
lector  ;  something  of  the  genius,  too  :  he  boasted  a  keen  instinct. 
In  his  earlier  and  more  precarious  days  he  had  formed  the  habit 
of  watching  for  and  collating  all  possible  advices  concerning 
those  whom  he  worked  for  or  worked  against  and  branching  from 
them  to  others  along  radiating  lines  of  business,  social,  or  family 
relationships.  To  him  New  York  was  a  huge  web,  of  sinister  and 
promising  design,  dim,  involved,  too  often  impenetrable  in  the 
corners  where  the  big  spiders  spin.  He  had  two  guiding  maxims : 
"It  may  come  in  handy  some  day,"  and  "They'll  all  bear  watch 
ing."  Before  the  prosperous  time,  he  had  been,  in  his  devotion  to 
his  guiding  principles,  a  practitioner  of  the  detective  arts  in  some 
of  their  least  savory  phases ;  had  haunted  doorsteps,  lurked  upon 
corners,  been  rained  upon,  snowed  upon,  possibly  spat  upon, 
even  arrested;  all  of  which  he  accepted,  mournful  but  uncom 
plaining.  One  cannot  whole-heartedly  serve  an  ideal  and  come 
off  scatheless.  He  was  adroit,  well-spoken,  smooth  of  surface, 
easy  of  purse,  untiring,  supple,  and  of  an  inexhaustible  good- 
humor.  It  was  from  the  ex-medical  student  that  Marrineal  had 
learned  of  Banneker's  offer  from  the  Syndicate ;  also  of  his  over- 
prodigal  hand  in  money  matters. 


412  Success 

"He's  got  to  have  the  cash,"  was  the  expert's  opinion  upon 
Banneker.  "There's  your  hold  on  him.  . . .  Quit?  No  danger. 
New  York's  in  his  blood.  He's  in  love  with  life,  puppy-love ;  his 
clubs,  his  theater  first-nights,  his  invitations  to  big  houses  which 
he  seldom  accepts,  big  people  coming  to  his  House  with  Three 
Eyes.  And,  of  course,  his  sense  of  power  in  the  paper.  No; 
he  won't  quit.  How  could  he?  He'll  compromise." 

" Do  you  figure  him  to  be  the  compromising  sort?  "  asked  Mar- 
rineal  doubtfully. 

"He  isn't  the  journalistic  Puritan  that  he  lets  on  to  be.  Look 
at  that  Harvey  Wheelwright  editorial,"  pointed  out  the  acute 
Ives.  "He  don't  believe  what  he  wrote  about  Wheelwright ;  just 
did  it  for  his  own  purposes.  Well,  if  the  oracle  can  work  himself 
for  his  own  purposes,  others  can  work  him  when  the  time  comes, 
if  it's  properly  managed." 

Marrineal  shook  his  head.  "If  there's  a  weakness  in  him  I 
haven't  found  it." 

Ives  put  on  a  look  of  confidential  assurance.  "Be  sure  it's 
there.  Only  it  isn't  of  the  ordinary  kind.  Banneker  is  pretty  big 
in  his  way.  No,"  he  pursued  thoughtfully;  "it  isn't  women,  and 
it  isn't  Wall  Street,  and  it  isn't  drink ;  it  isn't  even  money,  in  the 
usual  sense.  But  it's  something.  By  the  way,  did  I  tell  you 
that  I'd  found  an  acquaintance  from  the  desert  where  Banneker 
hails  from?" 

"No."  Marrineal's  tone  subtly  indicated  that  he  should  have 
been  told  at  once.  That  sort  of  thing  was,  indeed,  the  basis  on 
which  Ives  drew  a  considerable  stipend  from  his  patron's  private 
purse,  as  "personal  representative  of  Mr.  Marrineal"  for  pur 
poses  unspecified. 

"A  railroad  man.  From  what  he  tells  me  there  was  some  sort 
of  love-affair  there.  A  girl  who  materialized  from  nowhere  and 
spent  two  weeks,  mostly  with  the  romantic  station-agent.  Might 
have  been  a  princess  in  exile,  by  my  informant,  who  saw  her  twice. 
More  likely  some  cheap  little  skate  of  a  movie  actress  on  a  bust." 

"A  station-agent's  taste  in  women  friends — "  began  Marri 
neal,  and  forbore  unnecessarily  to  finish. 

"Possibly  it  has  improved.  Or  —  well,  at  any  rate,  there  was 


Fulfillment  413 


something  there.  My  railroad  man  thinks  the  affair  drove  Ban- 
neker  out  of  his  job.  The  fact  of  his  being  woman-proof  here 
points  to  its  having  been  serious." 

"  There  was  a  girl  out  there  about  that  time  visiting  Camilla 
Van  Arsdale,"  remarked  Marrineal  carelessly;  "a  New  York 
girl.  One  of  the  same  general  set.  Miss  Van  Arsdale  used  to  be  a 
New  Yorker  and  rather  a  distinguished  one." 

Too  much  master  of  his  devious  craft  to  betray  discomfiture 
over  another's  superior  knowledge  of  a  subject  which  he  had 
tried  to  make  his  own,  Ely  Ives  remarked: 

"Then  she  was  probably  the  real  thing.  The  princess  on  vaca 
tion.  You  don't  know  who  she  was,  I  suppose/'  he  added  tenta 
tively. 

Marrineal  did  not  answer,  thereby  giving  his  factotum  uncom 
fortably  to  reflect  that  he  really  must  not  expect  payment  for 
information  and  the  information  also. 

"  I  guess  he'll  bear  watching."  Ives  wound  up  with  his  favorite 
philosophy. 

It  was  a  few  days  after  this  that,  by  a  special  interposition  of 
kindly  chance,  Ives,  having  returned  from  a  trip  out  of  town, 
saw  Banneker  and  lo  breakfasting  in  the  station  restaurant. 
To  Marrineal  he  said  nothing  of  this  at  the  time ;  nor,  indeed,  to 
any  one  else.  But  later  he  took  it  to  a  very  private  market  of  his 
own,  the  breakfast-room  of  a  sunny  and  secluded  house  far 
uptown,  where  lived,  in  an  aroma  of  the  domestic  virtues,  a 
benevolent-looking  old  gentleman  who  combined  the  attributes 
of  the  ferret,  the  leech,  and  the  vulture  in  his  capacity  as  editor  of 
that  famous  weekly  publication,  The  Searchlight.  Ives  did  not 
sell  in  that  mart ;  he  traded  for  other  information.  This  time  he 
wanted  something  about  Judge  Willis  Enderby,  for  he  was  far 
enough  on  the  inside  politically  to  see  in  him  a  looming  figure 
which  might  stand  in  the  way  of  certain  projects,  unannounced 
as  yet,  but  tenderly  nurtured  in  the  ambitious  breast  of  Tertius 
C.  Marrineal.  From  the  gently  smiling  patriarch  he  received  as 
much  of  the  unwritten  records  as  that  authority  deemed  it 
expedient  to  give  him,  together  with  an  admonition,  thrown  in 
for  good  measure. 


414  Success 


"  Dangerous,  my  young  friend !  Dangerous ! " 

The  passionate  and  patient  collector  thought  it  highly  proba 
ble  that  Willis  Enderby  would  be  dangerous  game.  Certainly  he 
did  not  intend  to  hunt  in  those  fields,  unless  he  could  contrive  a 
weapon  of  overwhelming  caliber. 

Ely  Ives's  analysis  of  Banneker's  situation  was  in  a  measure 
responsible  for  Marrineal's  proposition  of  the  new  deal  to  his 
editor. 

"He  has  accepted  it,"  the  owner  told  his  purveyor  of  informa 
tion.  "But  the  real  fight  is  to  come." 

"Over  the  policy  of  the  editorial  page,"  opined  Ives. 

"Yes.  This  is  only  a  truce." 

As  a  truce  Banneker  also  regarded  it.  He  had  no  desire  to 
break  it.  Nor,  after  it  was  established,  did  Marrineal  make  any 
overt  attempt  to  interfere  with  his  conduct  of  his  column. 

After  awaiting  gage  of  battle  from  his  employer,  in  vain,  Ban 
neker  decided  to  leave  the  issue  to  chance.  Surely  he  was  not 
surrendering  any  principle,  since  he  continued  to  write  as  he 
chose  upon  whatever  topics  he  selected.  Time  enough  to  fight 
when  there  should  be  urged  upon  him  either  one  of  the  cardinal 
sins  of  journalism,  the  suppressio  veri  or  the  suggcsiio  falsi,  which 
he  had  more  than  once  excoriated  in  other  papers,  to  the  pious 
horror  of  the  hush-birds  of  the  craft  who  had  chattered  and 
cheeped  accusations  of  "fouling  one's  own  nest." 

Opportunity  was  not  lacking  to  Marrineal  for  objections  to  a 
policy  which  made  powerful  enemies  for  the  paper ;  Banneker, 
once  assured  of  his  following,  had  hit  out  right  and  left.  From 
being  a  weak-kneed  and  rather  apologetic  defender  of  the  "com 
mon  people,"  The  Patriot  had  become,  logically,  under  Banne 
ker's  vigorous  and  outspoken  policy,  a  proponent  of  the  side  of 
labor  against  capital.  It  had  hotly  supported  two  important  and 
righteous  local  strikes  and  been  the  chief  agent  in  winning  one. 
With  equal  fervor  it  had  advocated  a  third  strike  whose  justice 
was  at  best  dubious  and  had  made  itself  anathema,  though  the 
strike  was  lost,  to  an  industrial  group  which  was  honestly  striv 
ing  to  live  up  to  honorable  standards.  It  had  offended  a  power 
ful  ring  of  bankers  and  for  a  time  embarrassed  Marrineal  in  his 


Fulfillment  415 

loans.  It  had  threatened  editorial  reprisals  upon  a  combination 
of  those  feared  and  arrogant  advertisers,  the  department  stores, 
for  endeavoring,  with  signal  lack  of  success,  to  procure  the  sup 
pression  of  certain  marketnews.  It  became  known  as  independent, 
honest,  unafraid,  radical  (in  Wall  Street  circles  "  socialistic "  or 
even  "  anarchistic  "),  and,  to  the  profession,  as  dangerous  to  pro 
voke.  Advertisers  were,  from  time  to  time,  alienated;  public 
men,  often  of  The  Patriot's  own  trend  of  thought,  opposed. 
Commercial  associations  even  passed  resolutions,  until  Banneker 
took  to  publishing  them  with  such  comment  as  seemed  to  him 
good  and  appropriate.  Marrineal  uttered  no  protest,  though  the 
unlucky  Haring  beat  his  elegantly  waistcoated  breast  and  uttered 
profane  if  subdued  threats  of  resigning,  which  were  for  effect 
only;  for  The  Patriot's  circulation  continued  to  grow  and  the 
fact  to  which  every  advertising  expert  clings  as  to  the  one  solid 
hope  in  a  vaporous  calling,  is  that  advertising  follows  circulation. 

Seldom  did  Banneker  see  his  employer  in  the  office,  but  Mar 
rineal  often  came  to  the  Saturday  nights  of  The  House  With 
Three  Eyes,  which  had  already  attained  the  fame  of  a  local 
institution.  As  the  numbers  drawn  to  it  increased,  it  closed  its 
welcoming  orbs  earlier  and  earlier,  and,  once  they  were  darkened, 
there  was  admittance  only  for  the  chosen  few. 

It  was  a  first  Saturday  in  October,  New  York's  homing  month 
for  its  indigenous  social  birds  and  butterflies,  when  The  House 
triply  blinked  itself  into  darkness  at  the  untimely  hour  of  eleven- 
forty-five.  There  was  the  usual  heterogeneous  crowd  there,'  alike 
in  one  particular  alone,  that  every  guest  represented,  if  not 
necessarily  distinction,  at  least  achievement  in  his  own  line. 
Judge  Willis  Enderby,  many  times  invited,  had  for  the  first  time 
come.  At  five  minutes  after  midnight,  the  incorruptible  door 
keeper  sent  an  urgent  message  requesting  Mr.  Banneker's  per 
sonal  attention  to  a  party  who  declined  politely  but  firmly  to  be 
turned  away.  The  host,  answering  the  summons,  found  lo.  She 
held  out  both  hands  to  him. 

"  Say  you're  glad  to  see  me,"  she  said  imperatively. 

"Light  up  the  three  eyes,"  Banneker  ordered  the  doorman. 
"  Are  you  answered  ? "  he  said  to  lo. 


416  Success 

"  Ah,  that's  very  pretty,"  she  approved.  "It  means  l  welcome,' 
doesn't  it?" 

'Welcome,"  he  assented. 

"Then  Herbert  and  Esther  can  come  in,  can't  they?  They're 
waiting  in  the  car  for  me  to  be  rejected  in  disgrace.  They've  even 
bet  on  it." 

"They  lose,"  answered  Banneker  with  finality. 

"And  you  forgive  me  for  cajoling  your  big,  black  Cerberus, 
because  it's  my  first  visit  this  year,  and  if  I'm  not  nicely  treated 
I'll  never  come  again." 

"Your  welcome  includes  full  amnesty." 

"Then  if  you'll  let  me  have  one  of  my  hands  back  —  it  doesn't 
matter  which  one,  really  —  I'll  signal  the  others  to  come  in." 

Which,  accordingly,  she  did.  Banneker  greeted  Esther  Forbes 
and  Cressey,  and  waited  for  the  trio  until  they  came  down. 
There  was  a  stir  as  they  entered.  There  was  usually  a  stir  in 
any  room  which  lo  entered.  She  had  that  quality  of  sending 
waves  across  the  most  placid  of  social  pools.  Willis  Enderby  was 
one  of  the  first  to  greet  her,  a  quick  irradiation  of  pleasure  reliev 
ing  the  austere  beauty  of  his  face. 

"I  thought  the  castle  was  closed,"  he  wondered.  "How  did 
you  cross  the  inviolable  barriers?" 

"I  had  the  magic  password,"  smiled  lo. 

"Youth?  Beauty?  Or  just  audacity?" 

"Your  Honor  is  pleased  to  flatter,"  she  returned,  drooping  her 
eyes  at  him  with  a.  purposefully  artificial  effect.  From  the  time 
when  she  was  a  child  of  four  she  had  carried  on  a  violent  and 
highly  appreciated  flirtation  with  "Cousin  Billy,"  being  the  only 
person  in  the  world  who  employed  the  diminutive  of  his  name. 

"You  knew  Banneker  before?  But,  of  course.  Everybody 
knows  Banneker." 

"It's  quite  wonderful,  isn't  it !  He  never  makes  an  effort,  I'm 
told.  People  just  come  to  him.  Where  did  you  meet  him?" 

Enderby  told  her.  "We're  allies,  in  a  way.  Though  sometimes 
he  is  against  us.  He's  doing  yeoman  work  in  this  reform  mayor 
alty  campaign.  If  we  elect  Robert  Laird,  as  I  think  we  shall,  it 
will  be  chiefly  due  to  The  Patriot's  editorials." 


Fulfillment  417 

"Then  you  have  confidence  in  Mr.  Banneker?"  she  asked 
quickly. 

"  Well  —  in  a  way,  I  have/'  he  returned  hesitantly. 

"But  with  reservations,"  she  interpreted.  "What  are  they?" 

"One,  only,  but  a  big  one.  The  Patriot  itself.  You  see,  lo, 
The  Patriot  is  another  matter." 

"  Why  is  it  another  matter  ?  " . 

"Well,  there's  Marrineal,  for  example." 

"I  don't  know  Mr.  Marrineal.  Evidently  you  don't  trust 
him." 

"I  trust  nobody,"  disclosed  the  lawyer,  a  little  sternly,  "who 
is  represented  by  what  The  Patriot  is  and  does,  whether  it  be 
Marrineal,  Banneker,  or  another."  His  glance,  wandering  about 
the  room,  fell  on  Russell  Edmonds,  seated  in  a  corner  talking 
with  the  Great  Gaines.  "Unless  it  be  Edmonds  over  there,"  he 
qualified.  "All  his  life  he  has  fought  me  as  a  corporation  lawyer ; 
yet  I  have  the  queer  feeling  that  I  could  trust  the  inmost  secret 
of  my  life  to  his  honor.  Probably  I'm  an  old  fool,  eh  ?" 

lo  devoted  a  moment's  study  to  the  lined  and  worn  face  of  the 
veteran.  "No.  I  think  you're  right,"  she  pronounced. 

"In  any  case,  he  isn't  responsible  for  The  Patriot.  He  can't 
help  it." 

"Don't  be  so  cryptic,  Cousin  Billy.  Can't  help  what?  What 
is  wrong  with  the  paper  ?  " 

"You  wouldn't  understand." 

"But  I  want  to  understand,"  said  imperious  lo. 

"As  a  basis  to  understanding,  you'd  have  to  read  the  paper." 

"I  have.  Everyday.  All  of  it." 

He  gave  her  a  quick,  reckoning  look  which  she  sustained  with 
a  slight  deepening  of  color.  "The  advertisements,  too?"  She 
nodded.  "  What  do  you  think  of  them  ?  " 

"Some  of  them  are  too  disgusting  to  discuss." 

"  Did  it  occur  to  you  to  compare  them  with  the  lofty  standards 
of  our  young  friend's  editorials  ?  " 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  the  advertisements?"  she  countered. 

"Assume,  for  the  sake  of  the  argument,  that  he  has  nothing  to 
lo  with  them.  You  may  have  noticed  a  recent  editorial  against 


418  Success 

race-track  gambling,  with  the  suicide  of  a  young  bank  messenger 
who  had  robbed  his  employer  to  pay  his  losses  as  text." 

"Well?  Surely  that  kind  of  editorial  makes  for  good." 

"Being  counsel  for  that  bank,  I  happen  to  know  the  circum 
stances  of  the  suicide.  The  boy  had  pinned  his  faith  to  one  of  the 
race-track  tipsters  who  advertise  in  The  Patriot  to  furnish  a  list 
of  sure  winners  for  so  much  a  week." 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  Mr.  Banneker  knew  that  ?  " 

"Probably  not.  But  he  knows  that  his  paper  takes  money  for 
publishing  those  vicious  advertisements." 

"Suppose  he  couldn't  help  it?" 

"Probably  he  can't." 

"Well,  what  would  you  have  him  do?  Stop  writing  the  edi 
torials?  I  think  it  is  evidence  of  his  courage  that  he  should  dare 
to  attack  the  evils  which  his  own  paper  fosters." 

"That's  one  view  of  it,  certainly,"  replied  Enderby  dryly. 
"A  convenient  view.  But  there  are  other  details.  Banneker  is  an 
ardent  advocate  of  abstinence,  '  Down  with  the  Demon  Rum ! ' 
The  columns  of  The  Patriot  reek  with  whiskey  ads.  The  same 
with  tobacco." 

"But,  Cousin  Billy,  you  don't  believe  that  a  newspaper  should 
shut  out  liquor  and  tobacco  advertisements,  do  you?" 

The  lawyer  smiled  patiently.  "Come  back  on  the  track,  lo," 
he  invited.  "That  isn't  the  point.  If  a  newspaper  preaches  the 
harm  in  these  habits,  it  shouldn't  accept  money  for  exploiting 
them.  Look  further.  What  of  the  loan-shark  offers,  and  the 
blue-sky  stock  propositions,  and  the  damnable  promises  of  the 
consumption  and  cancer  quacks?  You  can't  turn  a  page  of  The 
Patriot  without  stumbling  on  them.  There's  a  smell  of  death 
about  that  money." 

"  Don't  all  the  newspapers  publish  the  same  kind  of  advertise 
ments  ?  "  argued  the  girl. 

"Certainly  not.  Some  won't  publish  an  advertisement  with 
out  being  satisfied  of  its  good  faith.  Others  discriminate  less 
carefully.  But  there  are  few  as  bad  as  The  Patriot." 

"If  Mr.  Banneker  were  your  client,  would  you  advise  him  to 
resign?"  she  asked  shrewdly. 


Fulfillment  419 


Enderby  winced  and  chuckled  simultaneously.  "Probably 
not.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he  could  find  another  rostrum  of 
equal  influence.  And  his  influence  is  mainly  for  good.  But  since 
you  seem  to  be  interested  in  newspapers,  lo"  —he  gave  her 
another  of  his  keen  glances  —  "from  The  Patriot  you  can  make  a 
diagnosis  of  the  disease  from  which  modern  journalism  is  suffer 
ing.  A  deep-seated,  pervasive  insincerity.  At  its  worst,  it  is 
open,  shameless  hypocrisy.  The  public  feels  it,  but  is  too  lacking 
in  analytical  sense  to  comprehend  it.  Hence  the  unformulated, 
instinctive,  universal  distrust  of  the  press.  '  I  never  believe  any 
thing  I  read  in  the  papers.'  Of  course,  that  is  both  false  and  silly. 
But  the  feeling  is  there ;  and  it  has  to  be  reckoned  with  one  day. 
From  this  arises  an  injustice,  that  the  few  papers  which  are 
really  upright,  honest,  and  faithful  to  their  own  standards,  are 
tainted  in  the  public  mind  with  the  double-dealing  of  the  others. 
Such  as  The  Patriot." 

"You  use  The  Patriot  for  your  purposes/'  lo  pointed  out. 

"When  it  stands  for  what  I  believe  right.  I  only  wish  I  could 
trust  it." 

"Then  you  really  feel  that  you  can't  trust  Mr.  Banneker?" 

"Ah  ;  we're  back  to  that !"  thought  Enderby  with  uneasiness. 
Aloud  he  said :  "It's  a  very  pretty  problem  whether  a  writer  who 
shares  the  profits  of  a  hypocritical  and  dishonest  policy  can  main 
tain  his  own  Drofessional  independence  and  virtue.  I  gravely 
doubt  it." 

"  I  don't,"  said  lo,  and  there  was  pride  in  her  avowal. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  Judge  gravely,  "what  does  it  all  mean? 
Are  you  letting  yourself  become  interested  in  Errol  Banneker?" 

lo  raised  clear  and  steady  eyes  to  the  concerned  regard  of  her 
old  friend.  "If  I  ever  marry  again,  I  shall  marry  him." 

"You're  not  going  to  divorce  poor  Delavan?"  asked  the  other 
quickly. 

"  No.  I  shall  play  the  game  through,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

For  a  space  Willis  Enderby  sat  thinking.  "Does  Banneker 
know  your  —  your  intentions?" 

"No." 

"  You  mustn't  let  him,  lo." 


420  Success 

"He  won't  know  the  intention.  He  may  know  the  —  the  feel 
ing  back  of  it."  A  slow  and  glorious  flush  rose  in  her  face,  making 
her  eyes  starry.  "I  don't  know  that  I  can  keep  it  from  him, 
Cousin  Billy.  I  don't  even  know  that  I  want  to.  I'm  an  honest 
sort  of  idiot,  you  know." 

"  God  grant  that  he  may  prove  as  honest ! "  he  half  whispered. 

Presently  Banneker,  bearing  a  glass  of  champagne  and  some 
pate  sandwiches  for  lo,  supplanted  the  lawyer. 

"Are  you  the  devotee  of  toil  that  common  report  believes, 
Ban ?  "  she  asked  him  lazily.  "They  say  that  you  write  editorials 
with  one  hand  and  welcome  your  guests  with  the  other." 

" Not  quite  that,"  he  answered.  "To-night  I'm  not  thinking  of 
work.  I'm  not  thinking  of  anything  but  you.  It's  very  wonder 
ful,  your  being  here." 

"But  I  want  you  to  think  of  work.  I  want  to  see  you  in  the 
very  act.  Won't  you  write  an  editorial  for  me?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "This  late?  That  would  be  cruelty  to  my 
secretary." 

"I'll  take  it  down  for  you.  I'm  fairly  fast  on  the  typewriter." 

"Will  you  give  me  the  subject,  too?" 

"No  more  than  fair,"  she  admitted.  "What  shall  it  be?  It 
ought  to  be  something  with  memories  in  it. .  .  .Books?  Poetry?" 
she  groped.  "I've  got  it !  Your  oldest,  favorite  book.  Have  you 
forgotten?" 

"The  Sears-Roebuck  catalogue?  I  get  a  copy  every  season, 
to  renew  the  old  thrill." 

"What  a  romanticist  you  are!"  said  she  softly.  "Couldn't 
you  write  an  editorial  about  it?" 

"Couldn't  I?  Try  me.  Come  up  to  the  den." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  remote  austerities  of  the  work-room. 
From  a  shelf  he  took  down  the  fat,  ornate  pamphlet,  now  much 
increased  in  bulk  over  its  prototype  of  the  earlier  years.  With 
random  finger  he  parted  the  leaves,  here,  there,  again  and  still 
again,  seeking  auguries. 

"Ready?"  he  said.  "Now,  I  shut  my  eyes  —  and  we're  in 
the  shack  again  —  the  clean  air  of  desert  spaces  —  the  click  of 
the  transmitter  in  the  office  that  I  won't  answer,  being  more 


Fulfillment  421 

importantly  engaged  —  the  faint  fragrance  of  you  permeating 
everything  —  youth  —  the  unknown  splendor  of  life  —  Now ! 
Go!"... 

Of  that  editorial,  composed  upon  the  unpromising  theme  of 
mail-order  merchandising,  the  Great  Gaines  afterward  said  that 
it  was  a  kaleidoscopic  panorama  set  moving  to  the  harmonic 
undertones  of  a  song  of  winds  and  waters,  of  passion  and  the 
inner^meanings  of  life,  as  if  Shelley  had  rhapsodized  a  catalogue 
into  poetic  being  and  glorious  significance.  He  said  it  was  foolish 
to  edit  a  magazine  when  one  couldn't  trust  a  cheap  newspaper 
not  to  come  flaming  forth  into  literature  which  turned  one's 
most  conscientious  and  aspiring  efforts  into  tinsel.  He  also  said 
"Damn!" 

lo  Welland  (for  it  was  lo  Welland  and  not  lo  Eyre  whom  the 
soothsayer  saw  before  him  as  he  declaimed),  instrument  and 
inspiration  of  the  achievement,  said  no  word  of  direct  praise. 
But  as  she  wrote,  her  fingers  felt  as  if  they  were  dripping  electric 
sparks.  When,  at  the  close,  he  asked,  quite  humbly,  "Is  that 
what  you  wanted?"  she  caught  her  breath  on  something  like  a 
sob. 

"I'll  give  you  a  title,"  she  said,  recovering  herself.  "Call  it 
4 If  there  were  Dreams  to  Sell.'" 

"Ah,  that's  good!"  he  cried.  "My  readers  won't  get  it. 
Pinheads !  They  get  nothing  that  isn't  plain  as  the  nose  on  their 
silly  faces.  Never  mind.  It's  good  for  'em  to  be  puzzled  once  in  a 
while.  Teaches  'em  their  place.  . .  .  I'll  tell  you  who  will  under 
stand  it,  though,"  he  continued,  and  laughed  queerly. 

"All  the  people  who  really  matter  will." 

"Some  who  matter  a  lot  to  The  Patriot  will.  The  local  mer 
chants  who  advertise  with  us.  They'll  be  wild." 

"Why?" 

"They  hate  the  mail-order  houses  with  a  deadly  fear,  because 
the  cataloguers  undersell  them  in  a  lot  of  lines.  Won't  Rome 
howl  the  day  after  this  appears ! " 

"Tell  me  about  the  relation  between  advertising  and  policy, 
Ban,"  invited  lo,  and  summarized  Willis  Enderby's  views. 

Banneker  had  formulated  for  his  own  use  and  comfort  the 


422  Success 

fallacy  which  has  since  become  standard  for  all  journalists  unwill 
ing  or  unable  to  face  the  issue  of  their  own  responsibility  to  the 
public.  He  now  gave  it  forth  confidently. 

"  A  newspaper,  lo,  is  like  a  billboard.  Any  one  has  a  right  to 
hire  it  for  purposes  of  exploiting  and  selling  whatever  he  has  to 
sell.  In  accepting  the  advertisement,  provided  it  is  legal  and 
decent,  the  publisher  accepts  no  more  responsibility  than  the 
owner  of  the  land  on  which  a  billboard  stands.  Advertising  space 
is  a  free  forum." 

"But  when  it  affects  the  editorial  attitude—" 

"That's  the  test,"  he  put  in  quickly.  "That's  why  I'm  glad  to 
print  this  editorial  of  ours.  It's  a  declaration  of  independence." 

"Yes,"  she  acquiesced  eagerly. 

"If  ever  I  use  the  power  of  my  editorials  for  any  cause  that  I 
don't  believe  in  —  yes,  or  for  my  own  advantage  or  the  advan 
tage  of  my  employer  —  that  will  be  the  beginning  of  surrender. 
But  as  long  as  I  keep  a  free  pen  and  speak  as  I  believe  for  what  I 
hold  as  right  and  against  what  I  hold  as  wrong,  I  can  afford  to 
leave  the  advertising  policy  to  those  who  control  it.  It  isn't  my 
responsibility. . .  .  It's  an  omen,  lo ;  I  was  waiting  for  it.  Marrineal 
and  I  are  at  a  deadlock  on  the  question  of  my  control  of  the  edi 
torial  page.  This  ought  to  furnish  a  fighting  issue.  I'm  glad  it 
came  from  you." 

"Oh,  but  if  it's  going  to  make  trouble  for  you,  I  shall  be  sorry. 
And  I  was  going  to  propose  that  we  write  one  every  Saturday." 

"  lo ! "  he  cried.  "  Does  that  mean  —  " 

"It  means  that  I  shall  become  a  regular  attendant  at  Mr. 
Errol  Banneker's  famous  Saturday  nights.  Don't  ask  me  what 
more  it  means."  She  rose  and  delivered  the  typed  sheets  into  his 
hands.  "I  —  I  don't  know,  myself.  Take  me  back  to  the  others, 
Ban." 

To  Banneker,  wakened  next  morning  to  a  life  of  new  vigor  and 
sweetness,  the  outcome  of  the  mail-order  editorial  was  worth  not 
one  troubled  thought.  All  his  mind  was  centered  on  lo. 


CHAPTER  VII 

EXPLOSIONS  of  a  powerful  and  resonant  nature  followed  the  pub 
lication  of  the  fantastic,  imaginative,  and  delightful  mail-order 
catalogue  editorial.  In  none  of  these  senses,  except  the  first,  did 
it  appeal  to  the  advertising  managers  of  the  various  department 
stores.  They  looked  upon  it  as  an  outrage,  an  affront,  a  deliber 
ate  slap  in  the  face  for  an  established,  vested,  and  prodigal  sup 
port  of  the  newspaper  press.  What  the  devil  did  The  Patriot 
mean  by  it ;  The  Patriot  which  sorely  needed  just  their  class  of 
reputable  patronage,  and,  after  sundry  contortions  of  rate-cut 
ting,  truckling,  and  offers  of  news  items  to  back  the  advertising, 
was  beginning  to  get  it  ?  They  asked  themselves,  and,  failing  of 
any  satisfactory  answer,  they  asked  The  Patriot  in  no  uncertain 
terms.  Receiving  vague  and  pained  replies,  they  even  went  to  the 
length  of  holding  a  meeting  and  sending  a  committee  to  wait 
upon  the  desperate  Haring,  passing  over  the  advertising  manager 
who  was  a  mere  figurehead  in  The  Patriot  office. 

Then  began  one  of  those  scenes  of  bullying  and  browbeating  to 
which  every  newspaper,  not  at  once  powerful  and  honest  enough 
to  command  the  fear  and  respect  of  its  advertisers,  is  at  some 
time  subjected.  Haring,  the  victim  personifying  the  offending 
organ,  was  stretched  upon  the  rack  and  put  to  the  question. 
What  explanation  had  he  to  offer  of  The  Patriot's  breach  of 
faith? 

He  had  none,  had  the  miserable  business  manager.  No  one 
could  regret  it  more  than  he.  But,  really,  gentlemen,  to  call  it  a 
breach  of  faith  — 

What  else  was  it?  Wasn't  the  paper  turning  on  its  own  adver 
tisers  ? 

Well ;  in  a  sense.  But  not  — 

But  nothing !  Wasn't  it  trying  to  undermine  their  legitimate 
business  ? 

Not  intentionally,  Mr.  Haring  was  (piteously)  sure. 

Intentionally  be  damned !  Did  he  expect  to  carry  their  a.dver- 


424  Success 

tising  on  one  page  and  ruin  their  business  on  another?  Did  he 
think  they  were  putting  money  into  The  Patriot  —  a  doubtful 
medium  for  their  business,  at  best  —  to  cut  their  own  throats  ? 
They'd  put  it  to  him  reasonably,  now ;  who,  after  all,  paid  for  the 
getting  out  of  The  Patriot?  Wasn't  it  the  advertisers? 

Certainly,  certainly,  gentlemen.  Granted. 

Could  the  paper  run  a  month,  a  fortnight,  a  week  without 
advertising  ? 

No ;  no !  It  couldn't.  No  newspaper  could. 

Then  if  the  advertisers  paid  the  paper's  way,  weren't  they 
entitled  to  some  say  about  it  ?  Didn't  it  have  a  right  to  give  'em 
at  least  a  fair  show  ? 

Indeed,  gentlemen,  if  he,  Haring,  were  in  control  of  the 
paper  — 

Then,  why ;  why  the  hell  was  a  cub  of  an  editor  allowed  to  cut 
loose  and  jump  their  game  that  way?  They  could  find  other 
places  to  spend  their  money ;  yes,  and  get  a  better  return  for  it. 
They'd  see  The  Patriot,  and  so  on,  and  so  forth. 

Mr.  Haring  understood  their  feelings,  sympathized,  even 
shared  them.  Unfortunately  the  editorial  page  was  quite  out  of 
his  province. 

Whose  province  was  it,  then?  Mr.  Banneker's,  eh?  And  to 
whom  was  Mr.  Banneker  responsible?  Mr.  Marrineal,  alone? 
All  right !  They  would  see  Mr.  Marrineal. 

Mr.  Haring  was  sorry,  but  Mr.  Marrineal  was  out  of  town. 
(Fiction.) 

Well,  in  that  case,  Banneker.  They'd  trust  themselves  to  show 
him  which  foot  he  got  off  on.  They'd  teach  (two  of  them,  in  their 
stress  of  emotion,  said  " learn";  they  were  performing  this  in 
chorus)  Banneker  — 

Oh,  Mr.  Banneker  wasn't  there,  either.  (Haring,  very  terri 
fied,  and  having  built  up  an  early  conception  of  the  Wild  West 
Banneker  from  the  clean-up  of  the  dock  gang,  beheld  in  his 
imagination  disjected  members  of  the  committee  issuing  piece 
meal  from  the  doors  and  windows  of  the  editorial  office,  the 
process  being  followed  by  an  even  more  regrettable  exodus  of 
advertising  from  the  pages  of  The  Patriot.) 


Fulfillment  425 


Striving  to  be  at  once  explanatory  and  propitiatory  to  all  and 
sundry,  Haring  was  reduced  to  inarticulate,  choking  interjec 
tions  and  paralytic  motions  of  the  hands,  when  a  member  of  the 
delegation,  hitherto  silent,  spoke  up. 

He  was  the  representative  of  McLean  &  Swazey,  a  college 
graduate  of  a  type  then  new,  though  now  much  commoner,  in  the 
developing  profession  of  advertising.  He  had  read  the  peccant 
editorial  with  a  genuine  relish  of  its  charm  and  skill,  and  had 
justly  estimated  it  for  what  it  was,  an  intellectual  jeu  d' esprit,  the 
expression  of  a  passing  fancy  for  a  tempting  subject,  not  of  a 
policy  to  be  further  pursued. 

"Enough  has  been  said,  I  think,  to  define  our  position,"  said 
he.  "All  that  we  need  is  some  assurance  that  Mr.  Banneker's 
wit  and  skill  will  not  be  turned  again  to  the  profit  of  our  com 
petitors  who,  by  the  way,  do  not  advertise  in  The  Patriot." 

Haring  eagerly  gave  the  assurance.  He  would  have  given 
assurance  of  Banneker's  head  on  a  salver  to  be  rid  of  these  per 
secuting  autocrats.  They  withdrew,  leaving  behind  an  atmos 
phere  of  threat  and  disaster,  dark,  inglorious  clouds  of  which 
Haring  trailed  behind  him  when  he  entered  the  office  of  the  owner 
with  his  countenance  of  woe.  His  postulate  was  that  Mr.  Marri- 
neal  should  go  to  his  marplot  editor  and  duly  to  him  lay  down 
the  law;  no  more  offending  of  the  valuable  department-store 
advertisers.  No ;  nor  of  any  others.  Or  he,  Haring  (greatly 
daring) ,  would  do  it  himself. 

Beside  the  sweating  and  agonizing  business  manager,  Marri- 
neal  looked  very  cool  and  tolerant  and  mildly  amused. 

"If  you  did  that,  Mr.  Haring,  do  you  appreciate  what  the 
result  would  be?  We  should  have  another  editorial  worse  than 
the  first,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Banneker  could  think  it  out.  No ;  you 
leave  this  to  me.  I'll  manage  it." 

His  management  took  the  negative  form  of  a  profound  silence 
upon  the  explicit  point.  But  on  the  following  morning  Banneker 
found  upon  his  desk  a  complete  analytical  table  showing  the 
advertising  revenue  of  the  paper  by  classes,  with  a  star  over  the 
department-store  list,  indicating  a  dated  withdrawal  of  twenty- 
two  thousand  dollars  a  year.  The  date  was  of  that  day.  Thus 


426  Success 

was  Banneker  enabled  to  figure  out,  by  a  simple  process,  the  loss 
to  himself  of  any  class  of  advertising,  or  even  small  group  in  a 
class,  dropping  out  of  the  paper.  It  was  clever  of  Marrineal,  he 
admitted  to  himself,  and,  in  a  way,  disappointing.  His  proffered 
gage  of  battle  had  been  refused,  almost  ignored.  The  issue  was 
not  to  be  joined  when  he  was  ready,  but  when  Marrineal  was 
ready,  and  on  Marrineal's  own  ground.  Very  well,  Banneker 
could  be  a  good  waiter.  Meantime  he  had  at  least  asserted  his 
independence. 

lo  called  him  up  by  'phone,  avid  of  news  of  the  editorial,  and 
he  was  permitted  to  take  her  to  luncheon  and  tell  her  all  about  it. 
In  her  opinion  he  had  won  a  victory;  established  a  position. 
Banneker  was  far  less  sanguine ;  he  had  come  to  entertain  a  con 
siderable  respect  for  Marrineal's  capacity.  And  he  had  another 
and  more  immediate  complication  on  his  mind,  which  fact  his 
companion,  by  some  occult  exercise  of  divination,  perceived. 

"What  else  is  worrying  you,  Ban?"  she  asked. 

Banneker  did  not  want  to  talk  about  that.  He  wanted  to  talk 
about  lo,  about  themselves.  He  said  so.  She  shook  her  head. 

"Tell  me  about  the  paper.' 

"Oh,  just  the  usual  complications.  There's  nothing  to  interest 
you  in  them." 

"Everything,"  she  maintained  ardently. 

Banneker  caught  his  breath.  Had  she  given  him  her  lips,  it 
could  hardly  have  meant  more  —  perhaps  not  meant  so  much 
as  this  tranquil  assumption  of  her  right  to  share  in  the  major 
concerns  of  his  life. 

"If  you've  been  reading  the  paper,"  he  began,  and  waited  for 
her  silent  nod  before  going  on,  "you  know  our  attitude  toward 
organized  labor." 

"Yes.  You  are  for  it  when  it  is  right  and  not  always  against 
it  when  it  is  wrong." 

"One  can't  split  hairs  in  a  matter  of  editorial  policy.  I've 
made  The  Patriot  practically  the  mouthpiece  of  labor  in  this 
city ;  much  more  so  than  the  official  organ,  which  has  no  influence 
and  a  small  following.  Just  now  I'm  specially  anxious  to  hold 
them  in  line  for  the  mayoralty  campaign.  We've  got  to  elect 


Fulfillment  427 


Robert  Laird.  Otherwise  we'll  have  such  an  orgy  of  graft  and 
rottenness  as  the  city  has  never  seen." 

"Isn't  the  labor  element  for  Laird?" 

"It  isn't  against  him,  except  that  he  is  naturally  regarded  as  a 
silk-stocking.  The  difficulty  isn't  politics.  There's  some  new 
influence  in  local  labor  circles  that  is  working  against  me ;  against 
The  Patriot.  I  think  it's  a  fellow  named  McClintick,  a  new  man 
from  the  West." 

"Perhaps  he  wants  to  be  bought  off." 

"You're  thinking  of  the  old  style  of  labor  leader,"  returned 
Banneker.  "It  isn't  as  simple  as  that.  No;  from  what  I  hear, 
he's  a  fanatic.  And  he  has  great  influence." 

"  Get  hold  of  him  and  talk  it  out  with  him,"  advised  lo. 

"I  intend  to."  He  brooded  for  a  moment.  "There  isn't  a  man 
in  New  York,"  he  said  fretfully,  "  that  has  stood  for  the  interests 
of  the  masses  and  against  the  power  of  money  as  I  have.  Why, 
lo,  before  we  cut  loose  in  The  Patriot,  a  banker  or  a  railroad 
president  was  sacrosanct.  His  words  were  received  with  awe. 
Wall  Street  was  the  holy  of  holies,  not  to  be  profaned  by  the 
slightest  hint  of  impiety.  Well,  we've  changed  all  that !  Not  I, 
alone.  Our  cartoons  have  done  more  than  the  editorials.  Every 
other  paper  in  town  has  had  to  follow  our  lead.  Even  The 
Ledger." 

"I  like  The  Ledger,"  declared  lo. 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  has  a  sort  of  dignity;  the  dignity  of  self- 
respect." 

"Hasn't  The  Patriot?"  demanded  the  jealous  Banneker. 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  answered  frankly,  "except  for  your  editorials. 
They  have  the  dignity  of  good  workmanship,  and  honesty,  and 
courage,  even  when  you're  wrong." 

"Are  we  so  often  wrong,  lo?  "  he  said  wistfully. 

"  Dear  boy,  you  can't  expect  a  girl,  brought  up  as  I  have  been, 
to  believe  that  society  is  upside  down,  and  would  be  better  if  it 
were  tipped  over  the  other  way  and  run  by  a  lot  of  hod-carriers 
and  ditch-diggers  and  cooks.  Can  you,  now?" 

"Of  course  not.  Nor  is  that  what  I  advocate.  I'm  for  the 


428  Success 


under  dog.  For  fair  play.  So  are  you,  aren't  you?  I  saw  your 
name  on  the  Committee  List  of  the  Consumers'  League,  dealing 
with  conditions  in  the  department  stores." 

"That's  different,"  she  said.  " Those  girls  haven't  a  chance  in 
some  of  the  shops.  They're  brutalized.  The  stores  don't  even 
pretend  to  obey  the  laws.  We  are  trying  to  work  out  some  sort  of 
organization,  now,  for  them." 

"  Yet  you're  hostile  to  organized  labor !  Who  shall  ever  under 
stand  the  feminine  mind !  Some  day  you'll  be  coming  to  us  for 
help." 

"  Very  likely.  It  must  be  a  curious  sensation,  Ban,  to  have  the 
consciousness  of  the  power  that  you  wield,  and  to  be  responsible 
to  nobody  on  earth." 

"To  the  public  that  reads  us,"  he  corrected. 

"Not  a  real  responsibility.  There  is  no  authority  over  you; 
no  appeal  from  your  judgments.  Hasn't  that  something  to  do 
with  people's  dislike  and  distrust  of  the  newspapers;  the  sense 
that  so  much  irresponsible  power  is  wrong?" 

"Yet,"  he  said,  "any  kind  of  censorship  is  worse  than  the  evil 
it  remedies.  I've  never  shown  you  my  creed,  have  I? " 

His  manner  was  half  jocular ;  there  was  a  smile  on  his  lips,  but 
his  eyes  seemed  to  look  beyond  the  petty  troubles  and  problems 
of  his  craft  to  a  final  and  firm  verity. 

"Tell  me,"  she  bade  him. 

He  drew  his  watch  out  and  opened  the  back.  For  a  moment 
she  thought,  with  confused  emotions,  that  she  would  see  there  a 
picture  of  herself  of  which  he  might  have  possessed  himself  some 
where.  She  closed  her  eyes  momentarily  against  the  fear  of  that 
anti-climax.  When  she  opened  them,  it  was  to  read,  in  a  clear, 
fine  print  those  high  and  sure  words  of  Milton's  noblest  message : 

And  though  all  the  winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose  to  play  upon  the 
earth,  so  truth  be  in  the  field,  we  do  injuriously,  by  licensing  and  pro 
hibiting,  to  misdoubt  her  strength.  Let  her  and  falsehood  grapple; 
who  ever  knew  truth  put  to  the  worse,  in  a  free  and  open  encounter? 
Her  confuting  is  the  best  and  surest  suppressing. 

Twice  she  read  the  pregnant  message. 

"I  have  it,"  said  she  gravely.  "To  keep  —  for  always." 


Fulfillment  429 


"Some  day  I'll  put  it  at  the  head  of  The  Patriot." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"Not  ready.  I  want  to  be  surer ;  absolutely  sure." 

"I'm  sure,"  she  declared  superbly;  "of  you." 

"You  make  me  sure  of  myself,  lo.  But  there's  Marrineal." 

"Yes ;  there's  Marrineal.  You  must  have  a  paper  of  your  own, 
mustn't  you,  Ban,  eventually?" 

"Perhaps.  If  I  ever  get  enough  money  to  own  it  abso 
lutely." 

"Only  four  years  ago,"  she  murmured,  with  apparent  irrelev 
ancy.  "  And  now  — ' ' 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again?"  he  asked  anxiously  as  she  rose. 
"Are  you  coming  Saturday  night?" 

"Of  course,"  said  lo. 

Through  the  agency  of  Russell  Edmonds,  McClintick,  the  labor 
leader,  came  to  see  Banneker.  He  was  a  stooping  giant  with  a 
deep,  melancholy  voice,  and  his  attitude  toward  The  Patriot  was 
one  of  distrustful  reticence.  Genuine  ardor  has,  however,  a 
warming  influence.  McClintick's  silence  melted  by  degrees,  not 
into  confidence  but,  surprisingly,  into  indignation,  directed  upon 
all  the  "capitalistic  press"  in  general,  but  in  particular  against 
The  Patriot.  Why  single  out  The  Patriot,  specially,  Banneker 
asked. 

"Hypocrite,"  muttered  the  giant. 

At  length  the  reason  came  out,  under  pressure :  The  Patriot 
had  been  (in  the  words  of  the  labor  man)  making  a  big  row  over 
the  arrest  of  certain  labor  organizers,  in  one  of  the  recurrent  out 
breaks  against  the  Steel  Trust,  opposed  by  that  organization's 
systematic  and  tyrannous  method  of  oppression.  So  far,  so  good. 
But  why  hadn't  the  paper  said  a  word  about  the  murder  of 
strikers'  wives  and  children  out  at  the  Veridian  Lumber  Com 
pany's  mills  in  Oregon ;  an  outrage  far  surpassing  anything  ever 
laid  to  the  account  of  the  Steel  Trust?  Simple  reason,  answered 
Banneker ;  there  had  been  no  news  of  it  over  the  wires.  No ;  of 
course  there  hadn't.  The  Amalgamated  Wire  Association  (an 
other  tool  of  capitalism)  had  suppressed  it ;  wouldn't  let  any 
strike  stuff  get  on  the  wires  that  it  could  keep  off.  Then  how, 


430  Success 

asked  Banneker,  could  it  be  expected  —  ?  McClintick  inter 
rupted  in  his  voice  of  controlled  passion ;  had  Mr.  Banneker  ever 
heard  of  the  Chicago  Transcript  (naming  the  leading  morning 
paper) ;  had  he  ever  read  it?  Well,  The  Transcript  —  which,  he, 
McClintick,  hated  strongly  as  an  organ  of  money  —  neverthe 
less  did  honestly  gather  and  publish  news,  as  he  was  constrained 
huskily  to  admit.  It  had  the  Veridian  story ;  was  still  running  it 
from  time  to  time.  Therefore,  if  Mr.  Banneker  was  interested, 
on  behalf  of  The  Patriot  - 

Certainly,  The  Patriot  was  interested ;  would  obtain  and  pub 
lish  the  story  in  full,  if  it  was  as  Mr.  McClintick  represented,  with 
due  editorial  comment. 

"Will  it?"  grumbled  McClintick,  gave  his  hat  a  look  of 
mingled  hope  and  skepticism,  put  it  on,  and  went  away. 

"Now,  what's  wrong  with  that  chap's  mental  digestion?" 
Banneker  inquired  of  Edmonds,  who  had  sat  quiet  throughout 
the  interview.  "What  is  he  holding  back?" 

"Plenty,"  returned  the  veteran  in  a  tone  which  might  have 
served  for  echo  of  the  labor  man's  gloom. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Veridian  story  ?  " 

"Yes.  I've  just  checked  it  up." 

"What's  the  milk  in  that  cocoanut?" 

"Sour!"  said  Edmonds  with  such  energy  that  Banneker 
turned  to  look  at  him  direct.  "The  principal  owner  of  Veri 
dian  is  named  Marrineal  Where  you  going,  Ban  ?  " 

"To  see  the  principal  owner  of  the  name,"  said  Banneker 
grimly. 

The  quest  took  him  to  the  big  house  on  upper  Fifth  Avenue. 
Marrineal  heard  his  editorial  writer  with  impassive  face. 

"So  the  story  has  got  here,"  he  remarked. 

"Yes.  Do  you  own  Veridian?" 

"No." 

Hope  rose  within  Banneker.  "You  don't?" 

"My  mother  does.  She's  in  Europe.  A  rather  innocent  old 
person.  The  innocence  of  age,  perhaps.  Quite  old."  All  of  this 
in  a  perfectly  tranquil  voice. 

"Have  you  seen  The  Chicago  Transcript?  It's  an  ugly  story." 


Fulfillment  431 


"Very.  I've  sent  a  man  out  to  the  camp.  There  won't  b^  any 
more  shootings." 

"It  comes  rather  late.  I've  told  McClintick,  the  labo*-  man 
who  comes  from  Wyoming,  that  we'll  carry  the  story,  if  we  verify 
it." 

Marrineal  raised  his  eyes  slowly  to  Banneker's  stern  face. 
"Have  you?"  he  said  coolly.  "Now,  as  to  the  mayoralty  cam 
paign  ;  what  do  you  think  of  running  a  page  feature  of  Laird's 
reforms,  as  President  of  the  Board,  tracing  each  one  down  to  its 
effect  and  showing  what  any  backward  step  would  mean?  By 
the  way,  Laird  is  going  to  be  pretty  heavily  obligated  to  The 
Patriot  if  he's  elected." 

For  half  an  hour  they  talked  politics,  nothing  else. 

At  the  office  Edmonds  was  making  a  dossier  of  the  Veridian 
reports.  It  was  ready  when  Banneker  returned. 

"Let  it  wait,"  said  Banneker. 

Prudence  ordained  that  he  should  throw  the  troublous  stuff 
into  the  waste-basket.  He  wondered  if  he  was  becoming  prudent, 
as  another  man  might  wonder  whether  he  was  becoming  old. 
At  any  rate,  he  would  make  no  decision  until  he  had  talked  it 
over  with  lo.  Not  only  did  he  feel  instinctive  confidence  in  her 
sense  of  fair  play;  but  also  this  relationship  of  interest  in  his 
affairs,  established  by  her,  was  the  opportunity  of  his  closest 
approach;  an  intimacy  of  spirit  assured  and  subtle.  He  hoped 
that  she  would  come  early  on  Saturday  evening. 

But  she  did  not.  Some  dinner  party  had  claimed  her,  and  it 
was  after  eleven  when  she  arrived  with  Archie  Densmore.  At 
once  Banneker  took  her  aside  and  laid  before  her  the  whole 
matter. 

"  Poor  Ban ! "  she  said  softly.  "  It  isn't  so  simple,  having  power 
to  play  with,  is  it?" 

"But  how  am  I  to  handle  this?" 

"The  mills  belong  to  Mr.  Marrineal's  mother,  you  said  ?" 

"Practically  they  do." 

"And  she  is—  ?" 

"A  silly  and  vain  old  fool." 

"  Is  that  his  opinion  of  her  ?  " 


432  Success 

"Necessarily.  But  he's  fond  of  her." 

"Will  he  really  try  to  remedy  conditions,  do  you  think?" 

"Oh,  yes.  So  far  as  that  goes." 

"Then  I'd  drop  it." 

"Print  nothing  at  all?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"That  isn't  what  I  expected  from  you.  Why  do  you  advise 
it?" 

"Loyalty." 

"The  paralytic  virtue,"  said  Banneker  with  such  bitterness  of 
conviction  that  lo  answered  : 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  mean  that  to  be  simply  clever." 

"It's  true,  isn't  it?" 

"There's  a  measure  of  truth  in  it.  But,  Ban,  you  can't  use 
Mr.  Marrineal's  own  paper  to  expose  conditions  in  Mr.  Marri- 
neaPs  mother's  mills.  If  he'd  even  directed  you  to  hold  off — " 

"That's  his  infernal  cleverness.  I'd  have  told  him  to  go  to  the 
devil." 

"And  resigned?" 

"Of  course." 

"  IT 011  rim  resign  now,"  she  pointed  out.  "But  I  think  you'd 
6e  foolish.  You  can  do  such  big  things.  You  are  doing  such  big 
things  with  The  Patriot.  Cousin  Billy  Enderby  says  that  if 
Laird  is  elected  it  will  be  your  doing.  Where  else  could  you  find 
such  opportunity?" 

"Tell  me  this,  lo,"  he  said,  after  a  moment  of  heavy-browed 
brooding  very  unlike  his  usual  blithe  certainty  of  bearing.  "  Sup 
pose  that  lumber  property  were  my  own,  and  this  thing  had 
broken  out." 

"Oh,  I'd  say  to  print  it,  every  word,"  she  answered  promptly. 
"Or"  —  she  spoke  very  slowly  and  with  a  tremor  of  color  flick 
ering  in  her  cheeks  —  "if  it  were  mine,  I'd  tell  you  to  print  it." 

He  looked  up  with  a  transfigured  face.  His  hand  fell  on  hers, 
in  the  covert  of  the  little  shelter  of  plants  behind  which  they  sat. 
"Do  you  realize  what  that  implies?"  he  questioned. 

"Perfectly,"  she  answered  in  her  clear  undertone. 

He  bent  over  to  her  hand,  which  turned,  soft  palm  up,  to  meet 


Fulfillment  433 

his  lips.  She  whispered  a  warning  and  he  raised  his  head  quickly. 
Ely  Ives  had  passed  near  by. 

"Marrineal's  familiar,"  said  Banneker.  "I  wonder  how  he  got 
here.  Certainly  I  didn't  ask  him.  .  .  .Very  well,  lo.  I'll  com 
promise.  But.  . .  I  don't  think  I'll  put  that  quotation  from  the 
Areopagitica  at  the  head  of  my  column.  That  will  have  to  wait. 
Perhaps  it  will  have  to  wait  until  I  —  we  get  a  paper  of  our  own/' 

"Poor  Ban!"  whispered  lo. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ONCE  a  month  Marrineal  gave  a  bachelor  dinner  of  Lucullan 
repute.  The  company,  though  much  smaller  than  the  gatherings 
at  The  House  With  Three  Eyes,  covered  a  broader  and  looser 
social  range.  Having  declined  several  of  his  employer's  invita 
tions  in  succession  on  the  well-justified  plea  of  work,  Banneker 
felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  attend  one  of  these  events,  and 
accordingly  found  himself  in  a  private  dining-room  of  the  choic 
est  of  restaurants,  tabled  with  a  curiously  assorted  group  of 
financiers,  editors,  actors,  a  small  selection  of  the  more  raffish 
members  of  The  Retreat  including  Delavan  Eyre ;  Ely  Ives ;  an 
elderly  Jewish  lawyer  of  unsavory  reputation,  enormous  income, 
and  real  and  delicate  scholarship ;  Herbert  Cressey,  a  pair  of  the 
season's  racing-kings,  an  eminent  art  connoisseur,  and  a  smatter 
ing  of  men-about-town.  Seated  between  the  lawyer  and  one  of 
the  racing-men,  Banneker,  as  the  dinner  progressed,  found  him 
self  watching  Delavan  Eyre,  opposite,  who  was  drinking  with 
sustained  intensity,  but  without  apparent  effect  upon  his  debo 
nair  bearing.  Banneker  thought  to  read  a  haunting  fear  in  his 
eyes,  and  was  cogitating  upon  what  it  might  portend,  when  his 
attention  was  distracted  by  Ely  Ives,  who  had  been  requested 
(as  he  announced)  to  exhibit  his  small  skill  at  some  minor 
sleight-of-hand  tricks.  The  skill,  far  from  justifying  its  posses 
sor's  modest  estimate,  was  so  unusual  as  to  provoke  expressions 
of  admiration  from  Mr.  Stecklin,  the  lawyer  on  Banneker 's  right. 

"Oh,  yes ;  hypnotism  too,"  said  Ely  Ives  briskly,  after  twenty 
minutes  of  legerdemain.  "  Child's  play." 

"Now,  who  suggested  hypnotism?"  murmured  Stecklin  in  his 
limpid  and  confidential  undertone,  close  to  Banneker's  ear. 
"You?  I?  No!  No  one,  /  think." 

So  Banneker  thought,  and  was  the  more  interested  in  Ives's 
procedure.  Though  the  drinking  had  been  heavy  at  his  end  of  the 
table,  he  seemed  quite  unaffected,  was  now  tripping  from  man  to 
man,  peering  into  the  eyes  of  each,  "  to  find  an  appropriate  sub- 


Fulfillment  435 


ject,"  as  he  said.  Delavan  Eyre  roused  himself  out  of  a  semi- 
torpor  as  the  wiry  little  prowler  stared  down  at  him. 

"What's  the  special  idea?"  he  demanded. 

"Just  a  bit  of  mesmerism,"  explained  the  other.  "I'll  try  you 
for  a  subject.  If  you'll  stand  up,  feet  apart,  eyes  closed,  I'll  hyp 
notize  you  so  that  you'll  fall  over  at  a  movement." 

"You  can't  do  it,"  retorted  Eyre. 

"For  a  bet,"  Ives  came  back. 

"A  hundred?" 

"Double  it  if  you  like." 

"You're  on."  Eyre,  slowly  swallowing  the  last  of  a  brandy- 
and-soda,  rose,  reaching  into  his  pocket. 

"Not  necessary,  between  gentlemen,"  said  Ely  Ives  with  a 
gesture  just  a  little  too  suave. 

"Ah,  yes,"  muttered  the  lawyer  at  Banneker's  side.  "Between 
gentlemen.  Eck-xactly." 

Pursuant  to  instructions,  Eyre  stood  with  his  feet  a  few  inches 
apart  and  his  eyes  closed.  "At  the  word,  you  bring  your  heels 
together.  Click!  And  you  keep  your  balance.  If  you  can.  For 
the  two  hundred.  Any  one  else  want  in  ? . . .  No  ? . . .  Ready,  Mr. 
Eyre.  Now!  Hep/'9 

The  heels  clicked,  but  with  a  stuttering,  weak  impact.  Eyre, 
bulky  and  powerful,  staggered,  toppled  to  the  left. 

"Hold  up  there!"  His  neigh bor  propped  him,  and  was 
clutched  in  his  grasp. 

"Hands  off!"  said  Eyre  thickly.  "Sorry,  Banks!  Let  me  try 
that  again.  Oh,  the  bet's  yours,  Mr.  Ives,"  he  added,  as  that 
keen  gambler  began  to  enter  a  protest.  "  Send  you  a  check  in  the 
morning  —  if  that'll  be  all  right." 

Herbert  Cressey,  hand  in  pocket,  was  at  his  side  instantly. 
"Pay  him  now,  Del,"  he  said  in  a  tone  which  did  not  conceal  his 
contemptuous  estimate  of  Ives.  "  Here's  money, if  you  haven't  it." 

"No;  no!  A  check  will  be  quite  all  right,"  protested  Ives. 
"At  your  convenience." 

Others  gathered  about,  curious  and  interested.  Banneker,  puz 
zled  by  a  vague  suspicion  which  he  sought  to  formulate,  was 
aware  of  a  low  runnel  of  commentary  at  his  ear. 


436  Success 

"Very  curious.  Shrewd;  yes.  A  clever  fellow.. .  .Sad,  too." 

"Sad?"  He  turned  sharply  on  the  lawyer  of  unsavory  suits. 
"  What  is  sad  about  it  ?  A  fool  and  his  money !  Is  that  tragedy  ?  " 

"Comedy,  my  friend.  Always  comedy.  This  also,  perhaps. 
But  grim.  . . .  Our  friend  there  who  is  so  clever  of  hand  and  eye ; 
he  is  not  perhaps  a  medical  man  ?  " 

"Yes;  he  is.  What  connection  —  Good  God!"  he  cried,  as  a 
flood  of  memory  suddenly  poured  light  upon  a  dark  spot  in  some 
of  his  forgotten  reading. 

"Ah?  You  know?  Yes;  I  have  had  such  a  case  in  my  legal 
practice.  Died  of  an  —  an  error.  He  made  a  mistake  —  in  a 
bottle,  which  he  purchased  for  that  purpose.  But  this  one  —  he 
elects  to  live  and  face  it  — " 

"Does  he  know  it?" 

"Obviously.  One  can  see  the  dread  in  his  eyes.  Some  of  his 
friends  know  it  —  and  his  family,  I  am  told.  But  he  does  not 
know  this  interesting  little  experiment  of  our  friend.  Profitable, 
too,  eh  ?  One  wonders  how  he  came  to  suspect.  A  medical  man, 
though;  a  keen  eye.  Of  course." 

"Damn  him,"  said  Banneker  quietly.  "General  paralysis?" 

"Eck-xactly.  Twelve,  maybe  fifteen  years  ago,  a  little  reck 
lessness.  A  little  overheating  of  the  blood.  Perhaps  after  a  din 
ner  like  this.  The  poison  lies  dormant;  a  snake  asleep.  Harms 
no  one.  Not  himself ;  not  another.  Until  —  something  here" 
he  tapped  the  thick  black  curls  over  the  base  of  his  brain.  "All 
that  ruddy  strength,  that  lusty  good-humor  passing  on  courage 
ously  —  for  he  is  a  brave  man,  Eyre  —  to  slow  torture  and  — 
and  the  end.  Grim,  eh?" 

Banneker  reached  for  a  drink.  "How  long?"  he  asked. 

"As  for  that,  he  is  very  strong.  It  might  be  slow.  One  prays 
not." 

"At  any  rate,  that  little  reptile,  Ives,  shan't  nave  his  profit  of 
it."  Banneker  rose  and,  disdaining  even  the  diplomacy  of  an 
excuse,  drew  Ely  Ives  aside. 

"That  bet  of  yours  was  a  joke,  Ives,"  he  prescribed. 

Ives  studied  him  in  silence,  wishing  that  he  had  watched, 
through  the  dinner,  how  much  drink  he  took. 


Fulfillment  437 

"  A  joke?"  he  asked  coolly.  " I  don't  understand  you." 

"Try,"  advised  Banneker  with  earnestness.  "I  happen  to 
have  read  that  luetic  diagnosis,  myself.  A  joke,  Ives,  so  far  as 
the  two  hundred  goes." 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do?"  asked  the  other. 

"Tear  up  the  check,  when  it  comes.  Make  what  explanation 
your  ingenuity  can  devise.  That's  your  affair.  But  don't  cash 
that  check,  Ives.  For  if  you  do  —  I  dislike  to  threaten  — 

"You  don't  need  to  threaten  me,  Mr.  Banneker,"  interrupted 
Ives  eagerly.  "If  you  think  it  wasn't  a  fair  bet,  your  word  is 
enough  for  me.  That  goes.  It's  off.  I  think  just  that  of  you. 
I'm  a  friend  of  yours,  as  I  hope  to  prove  to  you  some  day.  I 
don't  lay  this  up  against  you ;  not  for  a  minute." 

Not  trusting  himself  to  make'answer  to  this  proffer,  Banneker 
turned  away  to  find  his  host  and  make  his  adieus.  As  he  left,  he 
saw  Delavan  Eyre,  flushed  but  composed,  sipping  a  liqueur  and 
listening  with  courteous  appearance  of  appreciation  to  a  vapid 
and  slobbering  story  of  one  of  the  racing  magnates.  A  debauchee, 
a  cumberer  of  the  earth,  useless,  selfish,  scandalous  of  life  —  and 
Banneker,  looking  at  him  with  pitiful  eyes,  paid  his  unstinted 
tribute  to  the  calm  and  high  courage  of  the  man. 

Walking  slowly  home  in  the  cool  air,  Banneker  gave  thanks  for 
a  drink-proof  head.  He  had  need  of  it ;  he  wanted  to  think  and 
think  clearly.  How  did  this  shocking  revelation  about  Eyre 
affect  his  own  hopes  of  lo  ?  That  she  would  stand  by  her  hus 
band  through  his  ordeal  Banneker  never  doubted  for  an  instant. 
Her  pride  cf  fair  play  would  compel  her  to  that.  It  came  to  his 
mind  that  this  was  her  other  and  secret  reason  for  not  divorcing 
Eyre ;  for  maintaining  still  the  outward  form  of  a  marriage  which 
had  ceased  to  exist  long  before.  For  a  lesser  woman,  he  realized 
with  a  thrill,  it  would  have  been  a  reason  for  divorcing  him . .  . 
Well,  here  was  a  barrier,  indeed,  against  which  he  was  helpless. 
Opposed  by  a  loyalty  such  as  lo's  he  could  only  be  silent  and  wait. 

In  the  next  few  weeks  she  was  very  good  to  him.  Not  only  did 
she  lunch  with  him  several  times,  but  she  came  to  the  Saturday 
nights  of  The  House  With  Three  Eyes,  sometimes  with  Archie 
Densmore  alone,  more  often  with  a  group  of  her  own  set,  after  a 


438  Success 

dinner  or  a  theater  party.  Always  she  made  opportunity  for  a 
little  talk  apart  with  her  host ;  talks  which  any  one  might  have 
heard,  for  they  were  concerned  almost  exclusively  with  the  affairs 
of  The  Patriot,  especially  in  its  relation  to  the  mayoralty  cam 
paign  now  coming  to  a  close.  Yet,  impersonal  though  the  dis 
cussions  might  be,  Banneker  took  from  them  a  sense  of  ever- 
increasing  intimacy  and  communion,  if  it  were  only  from  a  sud 
den,  betraying  quiver  in  her  voice,  an  involuntary,  unconscious 
look  from  the  shadowed  eyes.  Whatever  of  resentment  he  had 
cherished  for  her  earlier  desertion  was  now  dissipated ;  he  was 
wholly  hers,  content,  despite  all  his  passionate  longing  for  her, 
with  what  she  chose  to  give.  In  her  own  time  she  would  be  gen 
erous,  as  she  was  brave  and  honorable — 

She  was  warmly  interested  in  the  election  of  Robert  Laird  to 
the  mayoralty,  partly  because  she  knew  him  personally,  partly 
because  the  younger  element  of  society  had  rather  "gone  in  for 
politics"  that  year,  on  the  reform  side.  Banneker  had  to  admit 
to  her,  as  the  day  drew  close,  that  the  issue  was  doubtful.  Though 
The  Patriot's  fervid  support  had  been  a  great  asset  to  the  cause, 
it  was  now,  for  the  moment,  a  liability  to  the  extent  that  it  was 
being  fiercely  denounced  in  the  Socialist  organ,  The  Summons, 
as  treasonable  to  the  interests  of  the  working-classes.  The  Sum 
mons  charged  hypocrisy,  citing  the  case  of  the  Veridian  strike. 

"That  is  McClintick?"  asked  lo. 

"He's  back  of  it,  naturally.  But  The  Summons  has  been  wait 
ing  its  chance.  Jealous  of  our  influence  in  the  field  it's  trying  to 
cultivate." 

"McClintick  is  right,"  remarked  lo  thoughtfully. 

Banneker  laughed.  "Oh,  lo !  It's  such  a  relief  to  get  a  clear 
view  and  an  honest  one  from  some  one  else.  There's  no  one  in 
the  office  except  Russell  Edmonds,  and  he's  away  now. .  .  .  You 
think  McClintick  is  right?  So  do  I." 

"  But  so  are  you.  You  had  to  do  as  you  did  about  the  story.  If 
any  one  is  to  blame,  it  is  Mr.  Marrineal.  Yet  how  can  one  blame 
him  ?  He  had  to  protect  his  mother.  It's  a  fearfully  complicated 
phenomenon,  a  newspaper,  isn't  it,  Ban?" 

"lo,  the  soul  of  man  is  simple  and  clear  compared  with  the 
soul  of  a  newspaper." 


Fulfillment  439 


"  If  it  has  a  soul." 

"Of  course  it  has.  It's  got  to  have.  Otherwise  what  is  it  but  a 
machine?" 

"Which  is  The  Patriot's ;  yours  or  Mr.  MarrineaPs?  I  can't," 
said  lo  quaintly,  "quite  see  them  coalescing." 

"I  wonder  if  Marrineal  has  a  soul,"  mused  Banneker. 

"  If  he  hasn't  one  of  his  own,  let  him  keep  his  hands  off  yours ! " 
said  lo  in  a  flash  of  feminine  jealousy.  "He's  done  enough  already 
with  his  wretched  mills.  What  shall  you  do  about  the  attack  in 
The  Summons?" 

"Ignore  it.  It  would  be  difficult  to  answer.  Besides,  people 
easily  forget." 

"A  dangerous  creed,  Ban.  And  a  cynical  one.  I  don't  want 
you  to  be  cynical." 

"I  never  shall  be  again,  unless  — " 

"  Unless? "  she  prompted. 

"It  rests  with  you,  lo,"  he  said  quietly. 

At  once  she  took  flight.  "Am  I  to  be  keeper  of  your  spirit?" 
she  protested.  "It's  bad  enough  to  be  your  professional  adviser. 
.  .  .  Why  don't  you  invite  a  crowd  of  us  down  to  get  the  election 
returns?"  she  suggested. 

"Make  up  your  party,"  assented  Banneker.  "Keep  it  small; 
say  a  dozen,  and  we  can  use  my  office." 

On  the  fateful  evening  there  duly  appeared  lo  with  a  group  of  a 
dozen  friends.  From  the  first,  it  was  a  time  of  triumph.  Laird 
took  the  lead  and  kept  it.  By  midnight,  the  result  was  a  cer 
tainty.  In  a  balcony  speech  from  his  headquarters  the  victor  had 
given  generous  recognition  for  his  success  to  The  Patriot,  men 
tioning  Banneker  by  name.  When  the  report  reached  them  Esther 
Forbes  solemnly  crowned  the  host  with  a  wreath  composed  of 
the  "flimsy"  on  which  the  rescript  of  the  speech  had  come  in. 

" Skoal  to  Ban  ! "  she  cried.  "Maker  of  kings  and  mayors  and 
things.  Skoal !  As  you're  a  viking  or  something  of  the  sort,  the 
Norse  salutation  is  appropriate." 

"It  ought  to  be  Danish  to  be  accurate,"  he  smiled. 

"Well,  that's  a  hardy,  seafaring  race,"  she  chattered.  "And 
that  reminds  me.  Come  on  out  to  the  South  Seas  with  us." 

"  Charmed,"  he  returned.  "  When  do  we  start  ?  To-morrow  ?  " 


440  Success 

"Oh,  I'm  not  joking.  You've  certainly  earned  a  vacation. 
And  of  course  you  needn't  enlist  for  the  whole  six  months  if  that 
is  too  long.  Dad  has  let  me  have  the  yacht.  There'll  only  be  a 
dozen.  lo's  going  along." 

Banneker  shot  one  startled,  incredulous  look  at  To  Eyre,  and 
instantly  commanded  himself,  to  the  point  of  controlling  his 
voice  to  gayety  as  he  replied : 

"And  who  would  tell  the  new  mayor  now  he  should  run  the 
city,  if  I  deserted  him?  No,  Esther,  I'm  afraid  I'm  chained  to 
this  desk.  Ask  me  sometime  when  you're  cruising  as  far  as  Coney 
Island." 

lo  sat  silent,  and  with  a  set  smile,  listening  to  Herbert  Cres- 
sey's  account  of  an  election  row  in  the  district  where  he  was 
volunteer  watcher.  When  the  party  broke  up,  she  went  home 
with  Densmore  without  giving  Banneker  the  chance  of  a  word 
with  her.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a  mute  plea  for  pardon 
in  her  face  as  she  bade  him  good-night. 

At  noon  next  day  she  called  him  on  the  'phone. 

"Just  to  tell  you  that  I'm  coming  as  usual  Saturday  evening," 
she  said. 

"  When  do  you  leave  on  your  cruise  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  until  next  week.  I'll  tell  you  when  I  see  you.  Good-bye." 

Never  had  Banneker  seen  lo  in  such  difficult  mood  as  she 
exhibited  on  the  Saturday.  She  had  come  early  to  The  House 
With  Three  Eyes,  accompanied  by  Densmore  who  looked  in  just 
for  one  drink  before  going  to  a  much-touted  boxing-match  in 
Jersey.  Through  the  evening  she  deliberately  avoided  seeing 
Banneker  alone  for  so  much  as  the  space  of  a  query  put  and 
answered,  dividing  her  attention  between  an  enraptured  master 
of  the  violin  who  had  come  after  his  concert,  and  an  aged  and 
bewildered  inventor  who,  in  a  long  career  of  secluded  toil,  had 
never  beheld  anything  like  this  brilliant  creature  with  her  intelli 
gent  and  quickening  interest  in  what  he  had  to  tell  her.  Rivalry 
between  the  two  geniuses  inspired  the  musician  to  make  an  offer 
which  he  would  hardly  have  granted  to  royalty  itself. 

"After  a  time,  when  zese  chatterers  are  gon-away,  I  shall  play 
for  you.  Is  zere  some  one  here  who  can  accompany  properly  ?  " 


Fulfillment  441 

Necessarily  lo  sent  for  Banneker  to  find  out.  Yes;  young 
Mackey  was  coming  a  little  later;  he  was  a  brilliant  amateur 
and  would  be  flattered  at  the  opportunity.  With  a  direct  insist 
ence  difficult  to  deny,  Banneker  drew  lo  aside  for  a  moment. 
Her  eyes  glinted  dangerously  as  she  faced  him,  alone  for  the 
moment,  with  the  question  that  was  the  salute  before  the  cross 
ing  of  blades. 

"Well?" 

"Are  you  really  going,  lo?" 

"Certainly.  Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"Say  that,  for  one  reason"  —  he  smiled  faintly,  but  resolutely 
—  "The  Patriot  needs  your  guiding  inspiration." 

"  All  The  Patriot's  troubles  are  over.  It's  plain  sailing  now." 

"What  of  The  Patriot's  editor?" 

"Quite  able  to  take  care  of  himself." 

Into  his  voice  there  suffused  the  first  ring  of  anger  that  she  had 
ever  heard  from  him ;  cold  and  formidable.  "That  won't  do,  lo. 
Why?" 

"Because  I  choose." 

"A  child's  answer.  Why?" 

"Do  you  want  to  be  flattered?"  She  raised  to  his,  eyes  that 
danced  with  an  impish  and  perverse  light.  "  Call  it  escape,  if  you 
wish." 

"From  me?" 

"Or  from  myself.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  think  that  I'm  afraid 
of  you?" 

'I  shouldn't  like  to  think  that  you're  afraid  of  anything." 

"  I'm  not."  But  her  tone  was  that  of  the  defiance  which  seeks  to 
encourage  itself. 

"I'd  call  it  a  desertion,"  he  said  steadily. 

"Oh,  no!  You're  secure.  You  need  nothing  but  what  you've 
got.  Power,  reputation,  position,  success.  What  more  can  heart 
desire?"  she  taunted. 

"You." 

She  quivered  under  the  biunt  word,  but  rallied  to  say  lightly : 
"Six  months  isn't  long.  Though  I  mav  stretch  it  to  a  year." 

"It's  too  long  for  endurance." 


442  Success 

"Oh,  you'll  do  very  well  without  me,  Ban." 

"  Shall  I  ?  When  am  I  to  see  you  again  before  you  go  ?  " 

Her  raised  eyebrows  were  like  an  affront.  "Are  we  to  see  each 
other  again  ?  Of  course,  it  would  be  polite  of  you  to  come  to  the 
train." 

There  was  a  controlled  and  dangerous  gravity  in  his  next 
question.  "lo,  have  we  quarreled?" 

"How absurd!  Of  course  not." 

"Then—" 

"  If  you  knew  how  I  dislike  fruitless  explanations ! " 

He  rose  at  once.  lo's  strong  and  beautiful  hands,  which  had 
been  lying  in  her  lap,  suddenly  interlocked,  clenching  close 
together.  But  her  face  disclosed  nothing.  The  virtuoso,  who  had 
been  hopefully  hovering  in  the  offing,  bore  down  to  take  the 
vacated  chair.  He  would  have  found  the  lovely  young  Mrs.  Eyre 
distrait  and  irresponsive  had  he  not  been  too  happy  babbling  of 
his  own  triumphs  to  notice. 

"Soon  zey  haf  growed  thin,  zis  crowd,"  said  the  violinist,  who 
took  pride  in  his  mastery  of  idiom.  "Zen,  when  zere  remains  but 
a  small  few,  I  play  for  you.  You  sit  zere,  in  ze  leetle  garden  of 
flowers."  He  indicated  the  secluded  seat  near  the  stairway, 
where  she  had  sat  with  Ban  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit  to 
The  House  With  Three  Eyes.  "Not  too  far;  not  too  near. 
From  zere  you  shall  not  see ;  but  you  shall  think  you  hear  ze 
stars  make  for  you  harmonies  of  ze  high  places." 

Young  Mackey,  having  arrived,  commended  himself  to  the 
condescending  master  by  a  meekly  worshipful  attitude.  Barely  a 
score  of  people  remained  in  the  great  room.  The  word  went  about 
that  they  were  in  for  one  of  those  occasional  treats  which  made 
The  House  With  Three  Eyes  unique.  The  fortunate  lingerers  dis 
posed  themselves  about  the  room.  lo  slipped  into  the  nook 
designated  for  her.  Banneker  was  somewhere  in  the  background ; 
her  veiled  glance  could  not  discover  where.  The  music  began. 

They  played  Tschaikowsky  first,  the  tender  and  passionate 
"  Melodic  "  ;  then  a  lilting  measure  from  Debussy's  "  Faun,"  fol 
lowed  by  a  solemnly  lovely  Brahms  arrangement  devised  by  the 
virtuoso  himself,  At  the  dying-out  of  the  applause,  the  violinist 


Fulfillment  443 

addressed  himself  to  the  nook  where  lo  was  no  more  than  a 
vague,  faerie  figure  to  his  eyes,  misty  through  interlaced  bloom 
and  leafage. 

"Now,  Madame,  I  play  you  somezing  of  a  American.  Ver' 
beautiful,  it  is.  Not  for  violin.  For  voice,  contralto.  I  sing  it  to 
you  —  on  ze  G-string,  which  weep  when  it  sing ;  weep  for  lost 
dreams.  It  is  called  'Illusion,'  ze  song." 

He  raised  his  bow,  and  at  the  first  bar  lo's  heart  gave  a  quick, 
thick  sob  within  her  breast.  It  was  the  music  which  Camilla 
Van  Arsdale  had  played  that  night  when  winds  and  forest  leaves 
murmured  the  overtones ;  when  earth  and  heaven  were  hushed  to 
hear. 

"Oh,  Ban !"  cried  lo's  spirit. 

Noiseless  and  swift,  Banneker,  answering  the  call,  bent  over 
her.  She  whispered,  softly,  passionately,  her  lips  hardly  stirring 
the  melody-thrilled  air. 

"  How  could  I  hurt  you  so  !  I'm  going  because  I  must ;  because 
I  daren't  stay.  You  can  understand,  Ban  I " 

The  music  died.  "Yes,"  said  Banneker.  Then,  "Don't  go, 
lo!" 

"I  must.  I'll  —  I'll  see  you  before.  When  we're  ourselves. 
We  can't  talk  now.  Not  with  this  terrible  music  in  our  blood." 

She  rose  and  went  forward  to  thank  the  player  with  such  a 
light  in  her  eyes  and  such  a  fervor  in  her  words  that  he  mentally 
added  another  to  his  list  of  conquests. 

The  party  broke  up.  After  that  magic  music,  people  wanted  to 
be  out  of  the  light  and  the  stir ;  to  carry  its  pure  passion  forth 
into  the  dark  places,  to  cherish  and  dream  it  over  again. .  .  .  Ban 
neker  sat  before  the  broad  fireplace  in  the  laxity  of  a  still  grief. 
lo  was  going  away  from  him.  For  a  six-month.  For  a  year.  For 
an  eternity.  Going  away  from  him,  bearing  his  whole  heart  with 
her,  as  she  had  left  him  after  the  night  on  the  river,  left  him  to  the 
searing  memory  of  that  mad,  sweet  cleavage  of  her  lips  to  his,  the 
passionate  offer  of  her  awakened  womanhood  in  uttermost  sur 
render  of  life  at  the  roaring  gates  of  death. . .  . 

Footsteps,  light,  firm,  unhesitant,  approached  across  the  broad 
floor  from  the  hallway.  Banneker  sat  rigid,  incredulous,  afraid 


444  Success 

to  stir,  as  the  sleeper  fears  to  break  the  spell  of  a  tenuous  and 
lovely  dream,  until  lo's  voice  spoke  his  name.  He  would  have 
jumped  to  his  feet,  but  the  strong  pressure  of  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders  restrained  him. 

"No.  Stay  as  you  are." 

"I  thought  you  had  gone,"  he  said  thickly. 

A  great  log  toppled  in  the  fireplace,  showering  its  sparks  in 
prodigal  display. 

"Do  you  remember  our  fire,  on  the  river-bank?"  said  the 
voice  of  the  girl,  lo,  across  the  years. 

"While  I  live." 

"  Just  you  and  I.  Man  and  woman.  Alone  in  the  world.  Some 
times  I  think  it  has  always  been  so  with  us." 

"We  have  no  world  of  our  own,  lo,"  he  said  sadly. 

"Heresy,  Ban;  heresy!  Of  course  we  have.  An  inner  world. 
If  we  could  forget  —  everything  outside." 

"I  am  not  good  at  forgetting." 

He  felt  her  fingers,  languid  and  tremulous,  at  his  throat,  her 
heart's  strong  throb  against  his  shoulder  as  she  bent,  the  sweet 
breath  of  her  whisper  stirring  the  hair  at  his  temple : 

"Try,  Ban." 

Her  mouth  closed  down  upon  his,  flower-sweet,  petal-light, 
and  was  withdrawn.  She  leaned  back,  gazing  at  him  from  half- 
closed,  inscrutable  eyes. 

"That's  for  good-bye,  lo?"  With  all  his  self-control,  he  could 
not  keep  his  voice  steady. 

"There  have  been  too  many  good-byes  between  us,"  she  mur 
mured. 

He  lifted  his  head,  attentive  to  a  stir  at  the  door,  which  im 
mediately  passed. 

"I  thought  that  was  Archie,  come  after  you." 

"Archie  isn't  coming." 

"Then  I'll  send  for  the  car  and  take  you  home." 

"  Won't  you  understand,  Ban  ?  I'm  not  going  home." 


CHAPTER  IX 

Io  EYRE  was  one  of  those  women  before  whom  Scandal  seems 
to  lose  its  teeth  if  not  its  tongue.  She  had  always  assumed  the 
superb  attitude  toward  the  world  in  which  she  moved.  "They 
say?  —  What  do  they  say?  —  Let  them  say !"  might  have  been 
her  device,  too  genuinely  expressive  of  her  to  be  consciously  con 
temptuous.  Where  another  might  have  suffered  in  reputation  by 
constant  companionship  with  a  man  as  brilliant,  as  conspicuous, 
as  phenomenal  of  career  as  Errol  Banneker,  Io  passed  on  her 
chosen  way,  serene  and  scatheless. 

Tongues  wagged,  indeed ;  whispers  spread ;  that  was  inevitable. 
But  to  this  Io  was  impervious.  When  Banneker,  troubled  lest 
any  breath  should  sully  her  reputation  who  was  herself  unsul 
lied,  in  his  mind,  would  have  advocated  caution,  she  refused  to 
consent. 

"Why  should  I  skulk?"  she  said.  "I'm  not  ashamed." 

So  they  met  and  lunched  or  dined  at  the  most  conspicuous 
restaurants,  defying  Scandal,  whereupon  Scandal  began  to 
wonder  whether,  all  things  considered,  there  were  anything  more 
to  it  than  one  of  those  flirtations  which,  after  a  time  of  faithful 
adherence,  become  standardized  into  respectability  and  a  sort  of 
tolerant  recognition.  What,  after  all,  is  respectability  but  the 
brand  of  the  formalist  upon  standardization? 

With  the  distaste  and  effort  which  Ban  always  felt  in  mention 
ing  her  husband's  name  to  Io,  he  asked  her  one  day  about  any 
possible  danger  from  Eyre. 

"No,"  she  said  with  assurance.  "I  owe  Del  nothing.  That  is 
understood  between  us." 

"  But  if  the  tittle-tattle  that  must  be  going  the  rounds  should 
come  to  his  ears  — " 

"If  the  truth  should  come  to  his  ears,"  she  replied  tranquilly, 
"it  would  make  no  difference." 

Ban  looked  at  her,  hesitant  to  be  convinced. 

"Yes;  it's  so,"  she  asseverated,  nodding.  "After  his  outbreak 


446  Success 


in  Paris  —  it  was  on  our  wedding  trip  —  I  gave  him  a  choice. 
I  would  either  divorce  him,  or  I  would  hold  myself  absolutely 
free  of  him  so  far  as  any  claim,  actual  or  moral,  went.  The  one 
thing  I  undertook  was  that  I  would  never  involve  his  name  in 
any  open  scandal." 

"He  hasn't  been  so  particular,"  said  Ban  gloomily. 

"Of  late  he  has.  Since  I  had  Cousin  Billy  Enderby  go  to  him 
about  the  dancer.  I  won't  say  he's  run  absolutely  straight  since. 
Poor  Del !  He  can't,  I  suppose.  But,  at  least,  he's  respected  the 
bargain  to  the  extent  of  being  prudent.  I  shall  respect  mine  to 
the  same  extent." 

"lo,"  he  burst  out  passionately,  "there's  only  one  thing  in  the 
world  I  really  want ;  for  you  to  be  free  of  him  absolutely." 

She  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  Ban!  Can't  you  be  content  — 
with  me?  I've  told  you  I  am  free  of  him.  I'm  not  really  his  wife." 

"No;  you're  mine,"  he  declared  with  jealous  intensity. 

"Yes;  I'm  yours."  Her  voice  trembled,  thrilled.  "You  don't 
know  yet  how  wholly  I'm  yours.  Oh,  it  isn't  that  alone,  Ban. 
But  in  spirit  and  thought.  In  the  world  of  shadowed  and  lovely 
things  that  we  made  for  ourselves  long  ago." 

"But  to  have  to  endure  this  atmosphere  of  secrecy,  of  stealth, 
of  danger  to  you,"  he  fretted.  "You  could  get  your  divorce." 

"No;  I  can't.  You  don't  understand." 

"Perhaps  I  do  understand,"  he  said  gently. 

"About  Del?"  She  drew  a  quick  breath.  " How  could  you ?" 

"Wholly  through  an  accident.  A  medical  man,  a  slimy  little 
reptile,  surprised  his  secret  and  inadvertently  passed  it  on." 

She  leaned  forward  to  him  from  her  corner  of  the  settee,  all 
courage  and  truth.  "I'm  glad  that  you  know,  though  I  couldn't 
tell  you,  myself.  You'll  see  now  that  I  couldn't  leave  him  to  face 
it  alone." 

"No.  You  couldn't.  If  you  did,  it  wouldn't  be  lo." 

"Ah,  and  I  love  you  for  that,  too,"  she  whispered,  her  voice 
and  eyes  one  caress  to  him.  "I  wonder  how  I  ever  made  myself 
believe  that  I  could  get  over  loving  you !  Now,  I've  got  to  pay 
for  my  mistake.  .  . .  Ban,  do  you  remember  the  'Babbling  Bab- 
•»on'?  The  imbecile  who  saw  me  from  the  train  that  day?" 


Fulfillment  447 

"I  remember  every  smallest  thing  in  any  way  connected  with 
you." 

"I  love  to  hear  you  say  that.  It  makes  up  for  the  bad  times, 
in  between. .  . .  The  Babbler  has  turned  up.  He's  been  living 
abroad  for  a  few  years.  I  saw  him  at  a  tea  last  week." 

"Did  he  say  anything?" 

"Yes.  He  tried  to  be  coy  and  facetious.  I  snubbed  him 
soundly.  Perhaps  it  wasn't  wise." 

"  Why  shouldn't  it  be?" 

"Well. .  .he  used  to  have  the  reputation  of  writing  on  the  sly 
for  The  Searchlight." 

"That  sewer-sheet!  You  don't  think  he'd  dare  do  anything 
of  the  sort  about  us?  Why,  what  would  he  have  to  go  on?" 

"What  does  The  Searchlight  have  to  go  on  in  most  of  its  lies, 
and  hints,  and  innuendoes?" 

"But,  lo,  even  if  it  did  publish  — " 

"It  mustn't,"  she  said.  "Ban,  if  it  did  —  it  would  make  it 
impossible  for  us  to  go  on  as  we  have  been.  Don't  you  see  that 
it  would?" 

He  turned  sallow  under  his  ruddy  skin.  "Then  I'll  stop  it, 
one  way  or  another.  I'll  put  the  fear  of  God  into  that  filthy  old 
worm  that  runs  the  blackmail  shop.  The  first  thing  is  to  find  out, 
though,  whether  there's  anything  in  it.  I  did  hear  a  hint. . .  " 
He  lost  himself  in  musings,  trying  to  recall  an  occult  remark 
which  the  obsequious  Ely  Ives  had  made  to  him  sometime  before. 
"And  I  know  where  I  can  do  it,"  he  ended. 

To  go  to  Ives  for  anything  was  heartily  distasteful  to  him.  But 
this  was  a  necessity.  He  cautiously  questioned  the  unofficial 
factotum  of  his  employer.  Had  Ives  heard  anything  of  a  projected 
attack  on  him  in  The  Searchlight  ?  Why,  yes ;  Ives  had  (naturally, 
since  it  was  he  and  not  Babson  who  had  furnished  the  material). 
In  fact,  he  had  an  underground  wire  into  the  office  of  that  weekly 
of  spice  and  scurrility  which  might  be  tapped  to  oblige  a  friend. 

Banneker  winced  at  the  characterization,  but  confessed  that 
he  would  be  appreciative  of  any  information.  In  three  days  a 
galley  proof  of  the  paragraph  was  in  his  hands.  It  confirmed  his 
angriest  fears.  Publication  of  it  would  smear  lo's  name  with 


448  Success 

scandal,  and,  by  consequence,  direct  the  leering  gaze  of  the 
world  upon  their  love. 

"  What  is  this ;  blackmail  ?  "  he  asked  Ives. 

"Might  be." 

"  Who  wrote  it?" 

"Reads  like  the  old  buzzard's  own  style." 

"  I'll  go  and  see  him,"  said  Banneker,  half  to  himself. 

"You  can  go,  but  I  don't  think  you'll  see  him."  Ives  set  forth 
in  detail  the  venerable  editor's  procedure  as  to  troublesome 
callers.  It  was  specific  and  curious.  Foreseeing  that  he  would 
probably  have  to  fight  with  his  opponent's  weapons,  Banneker 
sought  out  Russell  Edmonds  and  asked  for  all  the  information 
regarding  The  Searchlight  and  its  proprietor-editor  in  the  vet 
eran's  possession.  Edmonds  had  a  fund  of  it. 

" But  it  won't  smoke  him  out,"  he  said.  "That  skunk  lives  in  a 
deep  hole." 

"If  I  can't  smoke  him  out,  I'll  blast  him  out,"  declared  Ban 
neker,  and  set  himself  to  the  composition  of  an  editorial  which 
consumed  the  remainder  of  the  working  day. 

With  a  typed  copy  in  his  pocket,  he  called,  a  little  before  noon, 
at  the  office  of  The  Searchlight  and  sent  in  his  card  to  Major 
Bussey.  The  Major  was  not  in.  When  was  he  expected  ?  As  for 
that,  there  was  no  telling ;  he  was  quite  irregular.  Very  well,  Mr. 
Banneker  would  wait.  Oh,  that  was  quite  useless ;  was  it  about 
something  in  the  magazine ;  wouldn't  one  of  the  other  editors  do? 
Without  awaiting  an  answer,  the  anaemic  and  shrewd-faced  office 
girl  who  put  the  questions  disappeared,  and  presently  returned, 
followed  by  a  tailor-made  woman  of  thirty-odd,  with  a  delicate, 
secret-keeping  mouth  and  heavy-lidded,  deep-hued  eyes,  alto 
gether  a  seductive  figure.  She  smiled  confidently  up  at  Banneker. 

"I've  always  wanted  so  much  to  meet  you,"  she  disclosed, 
giving  him  a  quick,  gentle  hand  pressure.  "  So  has  Major  Bussey. 
Too  bad  he's  out  of  town.  Did  you  want  to  see  him  personally  ?  " 

"Quite  personally."  Banneker  returned  her  smile  with  one 
even  more  friendly  and  confiding, 

"Wouldn't  I  do?  Come  into  my  office,  won't  you?  I  repre 
sent  him  in  some  things." 


Fulfillment  449 


"Not  in  this  one,  I  hope,"  he  replied,  following  her  to  an  inner 
room.  "  It  is  about  a  paragraph  not  yet  published,  which  might 
be  misconstrued." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  any  one  could  possibly  misconstrue  it," 
she  retorted,  with  a  flash  of  wicked  mirth. 

"You  know  the  paragraph  to  which  I  refer,  then." 

"I  wrote  it." 

Banneker  regarded  her  with  grave  and  appreciative  urbanity. 
All  was  going  precisely  as  Ely  Ives  had  prognosticated ;  the  denial 
of  the  presence  of  the  editor;  the  appearance  of  this  alluring 
brunette  as  whipping-girl  to  assume  the  burden  of  his  offenses 
with  the  calm  impunity  of  her  sex  and  charm. 

"Congratulations,"  he  said.  "It  is  very  clever." 

"It's  quite  true,  isn't  it?"  she  returned  innocently. 

"  As  authentic,  let  us  say,  as  your  authorship  of  the  paragraph." 

"You  don't  think  I  wrote  it?  What  object  should  I  have  in 
trying  to  deceive  you?" 

"What,  indeed !  By  the  way,  what  is  Major  Bussey's  price?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Banneker!"  Was  it  sheer  delight  in  deviltry,  or 
amusement  at  his  direct  and  unstrategic  method  that  sparkled 
in  her  face.  "You  surely  don't  credit  the  silly  stories  of  —  well, 
blackmail,  about  us ! " 

"It  might  be  money,"  he  reflected.  "But,  on  the  whole,  I 
think  it's  something  else.  Something  he  wants  from  The  Patriot, 
perhaps.  Immunity  ?  Would  that  be  it  ?  Not  that  I  mean,  neces^ 
sarily,  to  deal." 

"What  is  your  proposition?"  she  asked  confidentially. 

"How  can  I  advance  one  when  I  don't  know  what  your  prin 
cipal  wants?" 

"The  paragraph  was  written  in  good  faith,"  she  asserted. 

"And  could  be  withdrawn  in  equal  good  faith?" 

Her  laugh  was  silvery  clear.  "Very  possibly.  Under  proper 
representations." 

"Then  don't  you  think  I'd  better  deal  direct  with  the  Major  ?  " 

She  studied  his  face.  "Yes,"  she  began,  and  instantly  refuted 
herself.  "No.  I  don't  trust  you.  There's  trouble  under  that 
smooth  smile  of  yours." 


450  Success 

"But  you're  not  afraid  of  me,  surely,"  said  Banneker.  He  had 
found  out  one  important  point ;  her  manner  when  she  said  "  Yes  " 
indicated  that  the  proprietor  was  in  the  building.  Now  he  con 
tinued:  "Are  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  I  am."  There  was  a  little  catch  in  her 
breath.  "  I  think  you'd  be  dangerous  to  any  woman." 

Banneker,  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers,  played  for  time  and  a  further 
lead  with  a  banality.  "  You're  pleased  to  flatter  me." 

" Aren't  you  pleased  to  be  flattered?"  she  returned  provoca 
tively. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  wrist.  She  swayed  to  him  with  a  slow, 
facile  yielding.  He  caught  her  other  wrist,  and  the  grip  of  his 
two  hands  seemed  to  bite  into  the  bone. 

"  So  you're  that  kind,  too,  are  you ! "  he  sneered,  holding  her 
eyes  as  cruelly  as  he  had  clutched  her  wrists.  "Keep  quiet! 
Now,  you're  to  do  as  I  tell  you." 

(Ely  Ives,  in  describing  the  watchwoman  at  the  portals  of 
scandal,  had  told  him  that  she  was  susceptible  to  a  properly 
timed  bluff.  "  A  woman  she  had  slandered  once  stabbed  her ;  since 
then  you  can  get  her  nerve  by  a  quick  attack.  Treat  her  rough.") 

She  stared  at  him,  fearfully,  half-hypnotized. 

"Is  that  the  door  leading  to  Bussey's  office?  Don't  speak! 
Nod." 

Dumb  and  stricken,  she  obeyed. 

"I'm  going  there.  Don't  you  dare  make  a  movement  or  a 
noise.  If  you  do  —  I'll  come  back." 

Shifting  his  grasp,  he  caught  her  up  and  with  easy  power  tossed 
her  upon  a  broad  divan.  From  its  springy  surface  she  shot  up, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  halfway  to  the  ceiling,  rigid  and  staring,  a 
ludicrous  simulacrum  of  a  glassy-eyed  doll.  He  heard  the  protest 
ing  "ping  ! "  and  "berr-rr-rr  "  of  a  broken  spring  as  she  fell  back. 
The  traverse  of  a  narrow  hallway  and  a  turn  through  a  half-open 
door  took  him  into  the  presence  of  bearded  benevolence  making 
notes  at  a  desk. 

"How  did  you  get  here?  And  who  the  devil  are  you?"  de 
manded  the  guiding  genius  of  The  Searchlight,  looking  up  irri 
tably.  He  raised  his  voice.  "Con!"  he  called. 


Fulfillment  451 


From  a  side  room  appeared  a  thick,  heavy-shouldered  man 
with  a  feral  countenance,  who  slouched  aggressively  forward,  as 
the  intruder  announced  himself. 

"My  name  is  Banneker." 

"Cheest!"  hissed  the  thick  bouncer  in  tones  of  dismay,  and 
stopped  short. 

Turning,  Banneker  recognized  him  as  one  ot  the  policemen 
whom  his  evidence  had  retired  from  the  force  in  the  wharf-gang 
investigation. 

"Oh !  Banneker,"  muttered  the  editor.  His  right  hand  moved 
slowly,  stealthily,  toward  a  lower  drawer. 

"Cut  it,  Major!"  implored  Con  in  acute  anguish.  "Cancbe' 
see  he's  gotche'  covered  through  his  pocket !" 

The  stealthy  hand  returned  to  the  sight  of  all  men  and  fussed 
among  some  papers  on  the  desk-top.  Major  Bussey  said  pee 
vishly  : 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?" 

"  Kill  that  paragraph." 

"What  par  - 

"Don't  fence  with  me,"  struck  in  Banneker  sharply.  "You 
know  what  one." 

Major  Bussey  swept  his  gaze  around  the  room  for  help  or 
inspiration.  The  sight  of  the  burly  ex-policeman,  stricken  and 
shifting  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  disconcerted  him 
sadly ;  but  he  plucked  up  courage  to  say : 

"The  facts  are  well  authent  - 

Again  Banneker  cut  him  short.  "Facts!  There  isn't  the 
semblance  of  a  fact  in  the  whole  thing.  Hints,  slurs,  innuendoes." 

"'Libel  does  not  exist  when—  "  feebly  began  the  editor,  and 
stopped  because  Banneker  was  laughing  at  him. 

"Suppose  you  read  that,"  said  the  visitor,  contemptuously 
tossing  the  typed  script  of  his  new-wrought  editorial  on  the  desk. 
"That's  libellous,  if  you  choose.  But  I  don't  think  you  would 
sue." 

Major  Bussey  read  the  caption,  a  typical  Banneker  eye- 
catcher,  "The  Rattlesnake  Dies  Out;  But  the  Pen- Viper  is  Still 
With  Us."  "I  don't  care  to  indulge  myself  with  your  literary 


452  Success 

efforts  at  present,  Mr.  Banneker,"  he  said  languidly.  "Is  this 
the  answer  to  our  paragraph?" 

"Only  the  beginning.  I  propose  to  drive  you  out  of  town  and 
suppress  'The  Searchlight.'" 

"A  fair  challenge.  I'll  accept  it." 

"I  was  prepared  to  have  you  take  that  attitude." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Banneker ;  you  could  hardly  expect  to  come  here 
ajid  blackmail  me  by  threats  — 

"Now  for  my  alternative,"  proceeded  the  visitor  calmly. 
''You  are  proposing  to  publish  a  slur  on  the  reputation  of  an 
innocent  woman  who  — " 

"  Innocent  !r'  murmured  the  Major  with  malign  relish. 

"Look  out,  Major!"  implored  Con,  the  body-guard.  "He's  a 
killer,  he  is." 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  particularly  afraid  of  you,  after  all," 
declared  the  exponent  of  The  Searchlight,  and  Banneker  felt  a 
twinge  of  dismay  lest  he  might  have  derived,  somewhence,  an 
access  of  courage.  "A  Wild  West  shooting  is  one  thing,  and  cold 
blooded,  premeditated  murder  is  another.  You'd  go  to  the 
chair." 

"Cheerfully/'  assented  Banneker. 

Bussey,  lifting  the  typed  sheets  before  him,  began  to  read. 
Presently  his  f;ce  flushed. 

"Why,  if  ycu  print  this  sort  of  thing,  you'd  have  my  office 
mobbed,"  he  cried  indignantly. 

"It's  possible." 

"It's  outrageous!  And  this  —  if  this  isn't  an  incitement  to 
lynching  —  You  wouldn't  dare  publish  this ! " 

"Try  me." 

Major  Bussey's  wizened  and  philanthropic  face  took  on  the 
cast  of  careful  thought.  At  length  he  spoke  with  the  manner  of 
an  elder  bestowing  wisdom  upon  youth. 

"A  controversy  such  as  this  would  do  nobody  any  good.  I 
have  always  been  opposed  to  journalistic  backbitings.  There 
fore  we  will  let  this  matter  lie.  I  will  kill  the  paragraph.  Not  that 
I'm  afraid  of  your  threats ;  nor  of  your  pen,  for  that  matter.  But 
in  the  best  interests  of  our  common  profession  —  " 


Fulfillment  453 


"  Good-day,"  said  Banneker,  and  walked  out,  leaving  the 
Major  stranded  upon  the  ebb  tide  of  his  platitudes. 

Banneker  retailed  the  episode  to  Edmonds,  for  his  opinion. 

"He's  afraid  of  your  gun,  a  little,"  pronounced  the  expert; 
"and  more  of  your  pen.  I  think  he'll  keep  faith  in  this." 

"As  long  as  I  hold  over  him  the  threat  of  The  Patriot." 

"Yes." 

"And  no  longer?" 

"No  longer.  It's  a  vengeful  kind  of  vermin,  Ban." 

"Pop,  am  I  a  common,  ordinary  blackmailer?  Or  am  I  not?" 

The  other  shook  his  head,  grayed  by  a  quarter-century  of 
struggles  and  problems.  "It's  a  strange  game,  the  newspaper 
game,"  he  opined, 


CHAPTER  X 

ALL  had  worked  out,  in  the  matter  of  The  Searchlight,  quite  as 
much  to  Mr.  Ely  Ives's  satisfaction  as  to  that  of  Banneker. 
From  his  boasted  and  actual  underground  wire  into  that  culture- 
bed  of  spiced  sewage  (at  the  farther  end  of  which  was  the  facile 
brunette  whom  the  visiting  editor  had  so  harshly  treated),  he  had 
learned  the  main  details  of  the  interview  and  reported  them  to 
Mr.  Marrineal. 

"Will  Banneker  now  be  good?"  rhetorically  queried  Ives, 
pursing  up  his  small  face  into  an  expression  of  judicious  apprecia 
tion.  "Hewitt  be  good!" 

Marrineal  gave  the  subject  his  habitual  calm  and  impersonal 
consideration.  "He  hasn't  been  lately,"  he  observed.  "Several 
of  his  editorials  have  had  quite  the  air  of  challenge." 

"That  was  before  he  turned  blackmailer.  Blackmail,"  phi 
losophized  the  astute  Ives,  "is  a  gun  that  you've  got  to  keep 
pointed  all  the  time." 

"  I  see.  So  long  as  he  has  Bussey  covered  by  the  muzzle  of  The 
Patriot,  The  Searchlight  behaves  itself." 

"  It  does.  But  if  ever  he  laid  down  his  gun,  Bussey  would  make 
hash  of  him  and  his  lady-love." 

"What  about  her?"  interrogated  Marrineal.  "Do  you  really 
think  -  '  His  uplifted  brows,  sparse  on  his  broad  and  candid 
forehead,  consummated  the  question. 

For  reply  the  factotum  gave  him  a  succinct  if  distorted  version 
of  the  romance  in  the  desert. 

"She  dished  him  for  Eyre,"  he  concluded,  "and  now  she's 
dishing  Eyre  for  him." 

"Bussey's  got  all  this?"  inquired  Marrineal,  and  upon  the 
other's  careless  "I  suppose  so,"  added,  "It  must  grind  his  soul 
not  to  be  able  to  use  it." 

"Or  not  to  get  paid  for  suppressing  it,"  grinned  Ives. 

"But  does  Banneker  understand  that  it's  fear  of  his  pen,  and 
not  of  being  killed,  that  binds  Bussey?" 


Fulfillment  455 


Ives  nodded.  "I've  taken  care  to  rub  that  in.  Told  him  of 
other  cases  where  the  old  Major  was  threatened  with  all  sorts  of 
manhandling ;  scared  out  of  his  wits  at  first,  but  always  got  over 
it  and  came  back  in  The  Searchlight,  taking  his  chance  of  being 
killed.  The  old  vulture  really  isn't  a  coward,  though  he's  a  wary 
bird." 

" Would  Banneker  really  kill  him,  do  you  think?" 

"I  wouldn't  insure  his  life  for  five  cents,"  returned  the  other 
with  conviction.  "Your  editor  is  crazy-mad  over  this  Mrs.  Eyre, 
So  there  you  have  him  delivered,  shorn  and  helpless,  and  Delilah 
doesn't  even  suspect  that  she's  acting  as  our  agent." 

Marrineal's  eyes  fixed  themselves  in  a  lifeless  sort  of  stare  upon 
a  far  corner  of  the  ceiling.  Recognizing  this  as  a  sign  of  inward 
cogitation,  the  vizier  of  his  more  private  interests  sat  waiting. 
Without  changing  the  direction  of  his  gaze,  the  proprietor  indi 
cated  a  check  in  his  ratiocination  by  saying  incompletely : 

"Now,  if  she  divorced  Eyre  and  married  Banneker  — " 

Ives  completed  it  for  him.  "That  would  spike  The  Search 
light's  guns,  you  think?  Perhaps.  But  if  she  were  going  to 
divorce  Eyre,  she'd  have  done  it  long  ago,  wouldn't  she?  I  think 
she'll  wait.  He  won't  last  long." 

"Then  our  hold  on  Banneker,  through  his  ability  to  intimidate 
The  Searchlight,  depends  on  the  life  of  a  paretic." 

"Paretic  is  too  strong  a  word  —  yet.  But  it  comes  to  about 
that.  Except  —  he'll  want  a  lot  of  money  to  marry  lo  Eyre." 

"He  wants  a  lot,  anyway,"  smiled  Marrineal. 

"He'll  want  more.  She's  an  expensive  luxury." 

"He  can  get  more.  Any  time  when  he  chooses  to  handle  The 
Patriot  so  that  it  attracts  instead  of  offends  the  big  advertisers." 

"  Why  don't  you  put  the  screws  on  him  now,  Mr.  Marrineal? " 
smirked  Ives  with  thin-lipped  malignancy. 

Marrineal  frowned.  His  cold  blood  inclined  him  to  be  deliber 
ate  ;  the  ophidian  habit,  slow-moving  until  ready  to  strike.  He 
saw  no  reason  for  risking  a  venture  which  became  safer  the  fur 
ther  it  progressed.  Furthermore,  he  disliked  direct,  unsolicited 
advice.  Ignoring  Ives's  remark  he  asked : 

"Hey/  are  his  investments  going?" 


456  Success 

Ives  grinned  again.  "Down.  Who  put  him  into  United 
Thread?  Do  you  know,  sir?" 

"Horace  Vanney.  He  has  been  tipping  it  off  quietly  to  the 
club  lot.  Wants  to  get  out  from  under,  himself." 

"There's  one  thing  about  it,  though,  that  puzzles  me.  If  he 
took  old  Vanney's  tip  to  buy  for  a  rise,  why  did  he  go  after  the 
Sippiac  Mills  with  those  savage  editorials?  They're  mainly 
responsible  for  the  legislative  investigation  that  knocked  eight 
points  off  of  United  Thread." 

"Probably  to  prove  his  editorial  independence." 

"To whom?  You?" 

"To  himself,"  said  Marrineal  with  an  acumen  quite  above 
the  shrewdness  of  an  Ives  to  grasp. 

But  the  latter  nodded  intelligently,  and  remarked:  "If  he's 
money-crazy  you've  got  him,  anyway,  sooner  or  later.  And  now 
that  he's  woman-crazy,  too — " 

"You'll  never  understand  just  how  sane  Mr.  Banneker  is," 
broke  in  Marrineal  coldly.  He  was  a  very  sane  man,  himself. 

"Well,  a  lot  of  the  sane  ones  get  stung  on  the  Street,"  moral 
ized  Ives.  "  I  guess  the  only  way  to  beat  that  game  is  to  get  crazy 
and  take  all  the  chances.  Mr.  Banneker  stands  to  drop  half  a 
year's  salary  in  U.  T.  alone  unless  there's  a  turn." 

Marrineal  delivered  another  well-thought-out  bit  of  wisdom. 
"  If  I'm  any  judge,  he  wants  a  paper  of  his  own.  Well . .  .  give  me 
three  years  more  of  him  and  he  can  have  it.  But  I  don't  think  it'll 
make  much  headway  against  The  Patriot,  then.'"' 

"Three  years?  Bussey  and  The  Searchlight  ought  to  hold  him 
that  long.  Unless,  of  course,  he  gets  over  his  infatuation  in  the 
meantime." 

"In  that  case,"  surmised  Marrineal,  eyeing  him  with  distaste, 
"  I  suppose  you  think  that  he  would  equally  lose  interest  in  pro 
tecting  her  from  The  Searchlight." 

"Well,  what's  a  woman  to  expect!"  said  Ives  blandly,  and 
took  his  dismissal  for  the  day. 

It  was  only  recently  that  Ives  had  taken  to  coming  to  The 
Patriot  office.  No  small  interest  and  conjecture  were  aroused 
among  the  editorial  staff  as  to  his  exact  status,  stimulus  to  gossip 


Fulfillment  457 

being  afforded  by  the  rumor  that  he  had  been,  from  MarrineaPs 
privy  purse,  shifted  to  the  office  pay-roll.  Russell  Edmonds  solved 
and  imparted  the  secret  to  Banneker. 

"Ives?  Oh,  he's  the  office  sandbag." 

"Translate,  Pop.  I  don't  understand.' 

"It's  an  invention  of  Marrineal's.  Very  ingenious.  It  was 
devised  as  a  weapon  against  libel  suits.  Suppose  some  local  cor 
respondent  from  Hohokus  or  Painted  Post  sends  in  a  story  on  the 
Honorable  Aminadab  Quince  that  looks  to  be  O.  K.,  but  is 
actually  full  of  bad  breaks.  The  Honorable  Aminadab  smells 
money  in  it  and  likes  the  smell.  Starts  a  libel  suit.  On  the  facts, 
he's  got  us :  the  fellow  that  got  pickled  and  broke  up  the  Metho 
dist  revival  wasn't  Aminadab  at  all,  but  his  tough  brother.  If  it 
gets  into  court  we're  stung.  Well,  up  goes  little  Weaselfoot  Ives 
to  Hohokus.  Sniffs  around  and  spooks  around  and  is  a  good  fel 
low  at  the  hotel,  and  possibly  spends  a  little  money  where  it's 
most  needed,  and  one  day  turns  up  at  the  Quince  mansion. 
1  Senator,  I  represent  The  Patriot.'  '  Don't  want  to  see  you  at  all. 
Talk  to  my  lawyer.'  'But  he  might  not  understand  my  errand. 
It  relates  to  an  indictment  handed  down  in  1884  for  malversa- 
sion  of  school  funds.'  'Young  man,  do  you  dare  to  intimate  — ' 
and  so  forth  and  so  on ;  bluster  and  bluff  and  threat.  Says  Ives, 
very  cool :  'Let  me  have  your  denial  in  writing  and  we'll  print  it 
opposite  the  certified  copy  of  the  indictment.'  The  old  boy  begins 
*o  whimper;  'That's  outlawed.  It  was  all  wrong,  anyway/ 
Ives  is  sympathetic,  but  stands  pat.  Drop  the  suit  and  The 
Patriot  will  be  considerate  and  settle  the  legal  fees.  Aminadab 
drops,  ten  times  out  of  ten.  The  sandbag  has  put  him  away." 

"But  there  must  be  an  eleventh  case  where  there's  nothing  on 
the  man  that's  suing." 

"Say  a  ninety-ninth.  One  libel  suit  in  a  hundred  may  be 
brought  in  good  faith.  But  we  never  settle  until  after  Ives  has 
done  his  little  prowl." 

"It  sounds  bad,  Pop.  But  is  it  so  bad,  after  all?  We've  got  to 
protect  ourselves  against  a  hold-up." 

"Dirty  work,  but  somebody's  got  to  do  it :  ay  —  yes?  I  agree 
with  you.  As  a  means  of  self-defense  it  is  excusable.  But  the 


458  Success 

operations  of  the  sandbag  have  gone  far  beyond  libel  in  Ives's 
hands." 

"Have  they?  To  what  extent?" 

"Any.  His  little  private  detective  agency  —  he's  got  a  couple 
of  our  porch-climbing,  keyhole  reporters  secretly  assigned  to  him 
at  call  for  '  special  work '  —  looks  after  any  man  we've  got  or  are 
likely  to  have  trouble  with ;  advertisers  who  don't  come  across 
properly,  city  officials  who  play  in  with  the  other  papers  too 
much,  politicians  — 

"But  that's  rank  blackmail!"  exclaimed  Banneker. 

"  Carried  far  enough  it  is.  So  far  it's  only  private  information 
for  the  private  archives." 

"Marrineal's?" 

"Yes.  He  and  his  private  counsel,  old  Mark  Stecklin,  are  the 
keepers  of  them.  Now,  suppose  Judge  Enderby  runs  afoul  of  our 
interests,  as  he  is  bound  to  do  sooner  or  later.  Little  Weaselfoot 
gets  on  his  trail  —  probably  is  on  it  already  —  and  he'll  spend  a 
year  if  necessary  watching,  waiting,  sniffing  out  something  that 
he  can  use  as  a  threat  or  a  bludgeon  or  a  bargain." 

"What  quarrel  have  we  got  with  Enderby?"  inquired  Ban 
neker  with  lively  interest. 

"None,  now.  But  we'll  be  after  him  hot  and  heavy  within  a 
year." 

"Not  the  editorial  page,"  declared  Banneker. 

"  Well,  I  hope  not.  It  would  be  rather  a  right-about,  wouldn't 
it?  But  Marrineal  isn't  afraid  of  a  right-about.  You  know  his 
creed  as  to  his  readers :  'The  public  never  remembers.'  Of  course, 
you  realize  what  Marrineal  is  after,  politically." 

"No.  He's  never  said  a  word  to  me." 

"Nor  to  me.  But  others  have.  The  mayoralty." 

"For  himself?" 

"  Of  course.  He's  quietly  building  up  his  machine." 

"But  Laird  will  run  for  reelection." 

"He'll  knife  Laird." 

"  It's  true  Laird  hasn't  treated  us  very  well,  in  the  matter  of 
backing  our  policies,"  admitted  Banneker  thoughtfully.  "The 
Combined  Street  Railway  franchise,  for  instance." 


Fulfillment  459 

"He  was  right  in  that  and  you  were  wrong,  Ban.  He  had  to 
follow  the  comptroller  there." 

"  Is  that  where  our  split  with  Enderby  is  going  to  come?  Over 
the  election?" 

"  Yes.  Enderby  is  the  brains  and  character  back  of  the  Laird 
administration.  He  represents  the  clean  government  crowd,  with 
its  financial  power." 

Banneker  stirred  fretfully  in  his  chair.  "  Damn  it ! "  he  growled. 
"I  wish  we  could  run  this  paper  as  a  newspaper  and  not  as  a 
chestnut  rake." 

"How  sweet  and  simple  life  would  be !"  mocked  the  veteran. 
"  Still,  you  know,  if  you're  going  to  use  The  Patriot  as  a  blunder 
buss  to  point  at  the  heads  of  your  own  enemies,  you  can't  blame 
the  owner  if  he  — " 

"You  think  Marrineal  knows?"  interposed  Banneker  sharply. 

"About  The  Searchlight  matter?  You  can  bet  on  one  thing, 
Ban.  Everything  that  Ely  Ives  knows,  Tertius  Marrineal  knows. 
So  far  as  Ives  thinks  it  advisable  for  him  to  know,  that  is.  Over 
and  above  which  Tertius  is  no  fool,  himself.  You  may  have 
noticed  that." 

"  It's  bothered  me  from  time  to  time, "admitted  the  other  dryly. 

"  It'll  bother  both  of  us  more,  presently,"  prophesied  Edmonds. 

"Then  I've  been  playing  direct  into  Marrineal's  hands  in 
attacking  Laird  on  the  franchise  matter." 

"Yes.  Keep  on." 

"Strange  advice  from  you,  Pop.  You  think  my  position  on 
that  is  wrong." 

"What  of  that?  You  think  it's  right.  Therefore,  go  ahead. 
Why  quit  a  line  of  policy  just  because  it  obliges  your  employer? 
Don't  be  over-conscientious,  son." 

"  I've  suspected  for  some  time  that  the  political  news  was  being 
adroitly  manipulated  against  the  administration.  Has  Marrineal 
tried  to  ring  you  in  on  that  ?  " 

"No;  and  he  won't." 

"Why  not?" 

"He  knows  that,  in  the  main,  I'm  a  Laird  man.  Laird  is  giv 
ing  us  what  we  asked  for,  an  honest  administration." 


460  Success 

"Suppose,  when  Marrineal  develops  his  plans,  he  comes  to 
you,  which  would  be  his  natural  course,  to  handle  the  news  end 
of  the  anti-Laird  campaign.  What  would  you  do?" 

"Quit." 

Banneker  sighed.  "It's  so  easy  for  you." 

"Not  so  easy  as  you  think,  son.  Even  though  there's  a  lot  of 
stuff  being  put  over  in  the  news  columns  that  makes  me  sore  and 
sick.  MarrineaPs  little  theory  of  using  news  as  a  lever  is  being 
put  into  practice  pretty  widely.  Also  we're  selling  it." 

"Selling  our  news  columns?" 

"Some  of  'em.  For  advertising.  You're  well  out  of  any 
responsibility  for  that  department.  I'd  resign  to-morrow  if  it 
weren't  for  the  fact  that  Marrineal  still  wants  to  cocker  up  the 
labor  crowd  for  his  political  purposes,  and  so  gives  me  a  free  hand 
in  my  own  special  line.  By  the  way,  he's  got  the  Veridian  matter 
all  nicely  smoothed  out.  Oh,  my,  yes !  Fired  the  general  mana 
ger,  put  in  all  sorts  of  reforms,  recognized  the  union,  the  whole 
programme !  That's  to  spike  McClintick's  guns  if  he  tries  to  trot 
out  Veridian  again  as  proof  that  Marrineal  is,  at  heart,  anti- 
labor." 

"Is  he?" 

"He's  anti-anything  that's  anti-Marrineal,  and  pro-anything 
that's  pro-Marrineal.  Haven't  you  measured  him  yet?  All 
policy,  no  principle ;  there's  Mr.  Tertius  Marrineal  for  you. . . . 
Ban,  it's  really  you  that  holds  me  to  this  shop."  Through  con 
volutions  of  smoke  from  his  tiny  pipe,  the  old  stager  regarded  the 
young  star  of  journalism  with  a  quaint  and  placid  affection. 
"Whatever  rotten  stuff  is  going  on  in  the  business  and  news 
department,  your  page  goes  straight  and  speaks  clear.  ...  I 
wonder  how  long  Marrineal  will  stand  for  it ...  I  wonder  what  he 
intends  for  the  next  campaign." 

"If  my  proprietor  runs  for  office,  I  can't  very  well  not  sup 
port  him,"  said  Banneker,  troubled. 

"Not  very  well.  The  pinch  will  come  as  to  what  you're  going 
to  do  about  Laird.  According  to  my  private  information,  he's 
coming  back  at  The  Patriot." 

"For  my  editorials  on  the  Combined  franchise?" 


Fulfillment  461 


"Hardly.  He's  too  straight  to  resent  honest  criticism.  No ;  for 
some  of  the  crooked  stuff  that  we're  running  in  our  political  news. 
Besides,  some  suspicious  and  informed  soul  in  the  administra 
tion  has  read  between  our  political  lines,  and  got  a  peep  of  the 
aspiring  Tertius  girding  himself  for  contest.  Result,  the  city  ad 
vertising  is  to  be  taken  from  The  Patriot." 

It  needed  no  more  than  a  mechanical  reckoning  of  percent 
ages  to  tell  Banneker  that  this  implied  a  serious  diminution  of  his 
own  income.  Further,  such  a  procedure  would  be  in  effect  a 
repudiation  of  The  Patriot  and  its  editorial  support. 

"That's  a  rotten  deal !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  No.  Just  politics.  Justifiable,  too,  I  should  say,  as  politics  go. 
I  doubt  whether  Laird  would  do  it  of  his  own  motion ;  he  plays  a 
higher  game  than  that.  But  it  isn't  strictly  within  his  province 
either  to  effect  or  prevent.  Anyhow,  it's  going  to  be  done." 

"  If  he  wants  to  fight  us  —  "  began  Banneker  with  gloom  in  his 
eyes. 

"He  doesn't  want  to  fight  anybody,"  cut  in  the  expert.  "He 
wants  to  be  mayor  and  run  the  city  for  what  seems  to  him  the 
city's  best  good.  If  he  thought  Marrineal  would  carry  on  his 
work  as  mayor,  I  doubt  if  he'd  oppose  him.  But  our  shrewd  old 
friend,  Enderby,  isn't  of  that  mind.  Enderby  understands  Mar 
rineal.  He'll  fight  to  the  finish." 

Edmonds  left  his  friend  in  a  glum  perturbation  of  mind. 
Enderby  understood  Marrineal,  did  he?  Banneker  wished  that 
he  himself  did.  If  he  could  have  come  to  grips  with  his  employer, 
he  would  at  least  have  known  now  where  to  take  his  stand.  But 
Marrineal  was  elusive.  No,  not  even  elusive;  quiescent.  He 
waited. 

As  time  passed,  Banneker's  editorial  and  personal  involve 
ments  grew  more  complex.  At  what  moment  might  a  pressure 
from  above  close  down  on  his  pen,  and  with  what  demand?  How 
should  he  act  in  the  crisis  thus  forced,  at  Marrineal's  slow  pleas 
ure?  Take  Edmonds's  Gordian  recourse;  resign?  But  he  was 
on  the  verge  of  debt.  His  investments  had  gone  badly ;  he  prided 
himself  on  the  thought  that  it  was  partly  through  his  own  immov 
able  uprightness.  Now,  this  threat  to  his  badly  needed  percent- 


462  Success 

ages !  Surely  The  Patriot  ought  to  be  making  a  greater  profit 
than  it  showed,  on  its  steadily  waxing  circulation.  Why  had  he 
ever  let  himself  be  wrenched  from  his  first  and  impregnable  sys 
tem  of  a  straight  payment  on  increase  of  circulation  ?  Would  it 
be  possible  to  force  Marrineal  back  into  that  agreement?  No 
income  was  too  great,  surely,  to  recompense  for  such  trouble  of 

soul  as  The  Patriot  inflicted  upon  its  editorial  mouthpiece 

Through  the  murk  of  thoughts  shot,  golden-rayed,  the  vision 
of  lo. 

No  world  could  be  other  than  glorious  in  which  she  lived  and 
loved  him  and  was  his. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SHELTERED  beneath  the  powerful  pen  of  Banneker,  his  idyll, 
fulfilled,  lengthened  out  over  radiant  months.  lo  was  to  him  all 
that  dreams  had  ever  promised  or  portrayed.  Their  association, 
flowering  to  the  full  amidst  the  rush  and  turmoil  of  the  city,  was 
the  antithesis  to  its  budding  in  the  desert  peace.  To  see  the  more 
of  his  mistress,  Banneker  became  an  active  participant  in  that 
class  of  social  functions  which  get  themselves  chronicled  in  the 
papers.  Wise  in  her  day  and  her  protective  instinct  of  love,  lo 
pointed  out  that  the  more  he  was  identified  with  her  set,  the  less 
occasion  would  there  be  for  comment  upon  their  being  seen 
together.  And  they  were  seen  together  much. 

She  lunched  with  him  at  his  downtown  club,  dined  with  him  at 
Sherry's,  met  him  at  The  Retreat  and  was  driven  back  home  in 
his  car,  sometimes  with  Archie  Densmore  for  a  third,  not  infre 
quently  alone.  Considerate  hostesses  seated  them  next  each 
other  at  dinners:  it  was  deemed  an  evidence  of  being  "in  the 
know"  thus  to  accommodate  them.  The  openness  of  their  in 
timacy  went  far  to  rob  calumny  of  its  sting.  And  Banneker 's 
ingrained  circumspection  of  the  man  trained  in  the  open,  applied 
to  Us  convenances,  was  a  protection  in  itself.  Moreover,  there  was 
in  his  devotion,  conspicuous  though  it  was,  an  air  of  chivalry,  a 
breath  of  fragrance  from  a  world  of  higher  romance,  which  ren 
dered  women  inparticular  charitable  of  judgment  toward  the  pair. 

Sometimes  in  the  late  afternoon  Banneker 's  private  numbered 
telephone  rang,  and  an  impersonal  voice  delivered  a  formal  mes 
sage.  And  that  evening  Banneker  (called  out  of  town,  no  matter 
how  pressing  an  engagement  he  might  have  had)  sat  in  The 
House  With  Three  Eyes,  now  darkened  of  vision,  thrilling  and 
longing  for  her  step  in  the  dim  side  passage.  There  was  risk  of 
disaster.  But  lo  willed  to  take  it ;  was  proud  to  take  it  for  her 
lover. 

Immersed  in  a  happiness  and  a  hope  which  vivified  every 
motion  of  his  life,  Banneker  was  nevertheless  under  a  continuous 


464  Success 

strain  of  watchfulness ;  the  qui  vive  of  the  knight  who  guards  his 
lady  with  leveled  lance  from  a  never-ceasing  threat.  At  the  point 
of  his  weapon  cowered  and  crouched  the  dragon  of  The  Search 
light,  with  envenomed  fangs  of  scandal. 

As  the  months  rounded  out  to  a  year,  he  grew,  not  less  careful, 
indeed,  but  more  confident.  Eyre  had  quietly  dropped  out  of  the 
world.  Hunting  big  game  in  some  wild  corner  of  Nowhere,  said 
rumor. 

lo  had  revealed  to  Banneker  the  truth ;  her  husband  was  in  a 
sanitarium  not  far  from  Philadelphia.  As  she  told  him,  her  eyes 
were  dim.  Swift,  with  the  apprehension  of  the  lover  to  read  the 
loved  one's  face,  she  saw  a  smothered  jealousy  in  his. 

"Ah,  but  you  must  pity  him,  too !  He  has  been  so  game." 

" Has  been?" 

"Yes.  This  is  nearly  the  end.  I  shall  go  down  there  to  be 
near  him." 

"It's  a  long  way,  Philadelphia,"  he  said  moodily. 

"What  a  child !  Two  hours  in  your  car  from  The  Retreat." 

"Then  I  may  come  down?" 

"May?  You  must!" 

Pie  was  still  unappeased.  "But  you'll  be  very  far  away  from 
me  most  of  the  time." 

She  gleamed  on  him,  her  face  all  joyous  for  his  incessant  want 
of  her.  "  Stupid !  We  shall  see  almost  as  much  of  each  other  as 
before.  I'll  be  coming  over  to  New  York  two  or  three  times  a 
week." 

Wherewith,  and  a  promised  daily  telephone  call,  he  must  be 
content. 

Not  at  that  meeting  did  he  broach  the  subject  nearest  his 
heart.  He  felt  that  he  must  give  lo  time  to  adjust  herself  to  the 
new-developed  status  of  her  husband,  as  of  one  already  passed 
out  of  the  world.  A  fortnight  later  he  spoke  out.  He  had  gone 
down  to  The  Retreat  for  the  week-end  and  she  had  come  up  from 
Philadelphia  to  meet  him,  for  dinner.  He  found  her  in  a  secluded 
alcove  off  the  main  dining-porch,  alone.  She  rose  and  came  to 
him,  after  that  one  swift,  sweet,  precautionary  glance  about  her 
with  which  a  woman  in  love  assures  herself  of  safety  before  she 


Fulfillment  465 


gives  her  lips ;  tender  and  passionate  to  the  yearning  need  of  her 
that  sprang  in  his  face. 

"Ban,  I've  been  undergoing  a  solemn  preachment." 

"From  whom?" 

"Archie." 

"IsDensmorehere?" 

"  No ;  he  came  over  to  Philadelphia  to  deliver  it." 

"About  us?" 

She  nodded.  "Don't  take  it  so  gloomily.  It  was  to  be  ex 
pected." 

He  frowned.  "It's  on  my  mind  all  the  time;  the  danger  to 
you." 

"Would  you  end  it?"  she  said  softly. 

"Yes." 

Too  confident  to  misconstrue  his  reply,  she  let  her  hand  fall  on 
his,  waiting. 

"lo,  how  long  will  it  be,  with  Eyre?  Before  — " 

"Oh;  that!"  The  brilliance  faded  from  her  eager  loveliness. 
"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  a  year.  He  suffers  abominably,  poor 
fellow." 

"  And  after  —  after  that,  how  long  before  you  can  marry  me  ?  " 

She  twinkled  at  him  mischievously.  "So,  after  all  these  years, 
my  lover  makes  me  an  offer  of  marriage.  Why  didn't  you  ask  me 
at  Manzanita?" 

"Good  God!  Would  it  possibly—" 

"  No ;  no !  I  shouldn't  have  said  it.  I  was  teasing." 

"  You  know  that  there's  never  been  a  moment  when  the  one 
thing  worth  living  and  fighting  and  striving  for  wasn't  you." 

"And  success?"  she  taunted,  but  with  tenderness. 

"  Another  name  for  you.  I  wanted  it  only  as  the  reflex  of  your 
wish  for  me." 

"Even  when  I'd  left  you?" 

"  Even  when  you'd  left  me." 

"Poor  Ban!"  she  breathed,  and  for  a  moment  her  fingers 
fluttered  at  his  cheek.  "Have  I  made  it  up  to  you? " 

He  bent  over  the  long,  low  chair  in  which  she  half  reclined. 
"A  thousand  times !  Every  day  that  I  see  you ;  every  day  that 


466  Success 

I  think  of  you ;  with  the  lightest  touch  of  your  hand ;  the  sound 
of  your  voice ;  the  turn  of  your  face  toward  me.  I'm  jealous  of  it 
and  fearful  of  it.  Can  you  wonder  that  I  live  in  a  torment  of 
dread  lest  something  happen  to  bring  it  all  to  ruin  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Nothing  could.  Unless  —  No.  I  won't 
say  it.  I  want  you  to  want  to  marry  me,  Ban.  But  —  I  wonder." 

As  they  talked,  the  little  light  of  late  afternoon  had  dwindled, 
until  in  their  nook  they  could  see  each  other  only  as  vague  forms. 

"Isn't  there  a  table-lamp  there?"  she  asked.  "Turn  it  on." 

He  found  and  pulled  the  chain.  The  glow,  softly  shaded,  irradi 
ated  lo's  lineaments,  showing  her  thoughtful,  somber,  even  a  little 
apprehensive.  She  lifted  the  shade  and  turned  it  to  throw  the 
direct  rays  upon  Banneker.  He  blinked. 

"Do  you  mind?"  she  asked  softly.  Even  more  softly,  she 
added,  "  Do  you  remember  ?  " 

His  mind  veered  back  across  the  years,  full  of  struggle,  of 
triumph,  of  emptiness,  of  fulfillment,  to  a  night  in  another  world ; 
a  world  of  dreams,  magic  associations,  high  and  peaceful  ambi 
tions,  into  which  had  broken  a  voice  and  an  appeal  from  the 
darkness.  He  had  turned  the  light  upon  himself  then  that  she 
might  see  him  for  what  he  was  and  have  no  fear.  So  he  held  it 
now,  lifting  it  above  his  forehead.  Hypnotized  by  the  compul 
sion  of  memory,  she  said,  as  she  had  said  to  the  unknown  helper 
in  the  desert  shack : 

"I  don't  know  you.  Do  I?" 

"lo!" 

"  Ah !  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that.  It  came  back  to  me,  Ban. 
Perhaps  it's  true.  Do  I  know  you  ?  " 

As  in  the  long  ago  he  answered  her :  "Are  you  afraid  of  me?" 

"Of  everything.  Of  the  future.  Of  what  I  don't  know  in 
you." 

"There's  nothing  of  me  that  you  don't  know,"  he  averred. 

"Isn't  there? "  She  was  infinitely  wistful ;  avid  of  reassurance. 
Before  he  could  answer  she  continued:  "That  night  in  the  rain 
when  I  first  saw  you,  under  the  flash,  as  I  see  you  now  —  Ban, 
dear,  how  little  you've  changed,  how  wonderfully  little,  to  the 
eye !  —  the  instant  I  saw  you,  I  trusted  you." 


Fulfillment  467 


"Do  you  trust  me  now?"  he  asked  for  the  delight  of  hearing 
her  declare  it. 

Instead  he  heard,  incredulously,  the  doubt  in  her  tone.  "Do 
I?  I  want  to  —  so  much!  I  did  then.  At  first  sight." 

He  set  down  the  lamp.  She  could  hear  him  breathing  quick 
and  stressfully.  He  did  not  speak. 

"At  first  sight/7  she  repeated.  "And  —  i  think  —  I  lovea 
you  from  that  minute.  Though  of  course  I  didn't  know.  Not  for 
days.  Then,  when  I'd  gone,  I  found  what  I'd  never  dreamed  of ; 
how  much  I  could  love." 

"And  now?"  he  whispered. 

"Ah,  more  than  then !"  The  low  cry  leapt  from  her  lips.  "A 
thousand  times  more." 

"But  you  don't  trust  me?" 

"Why  don't  I,  Ban?"  she  pleaded.  "What  have  you  done? 
How  have  you  changed?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Yet  you've  given  me  your  love.  Do  you 
trust  yourself?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  startling  quietude  of  certainty. 
"In  that  I  do.  Absolutely." 

"Then  I'll  chance  the  rest.  You're  upset  to-night,  aren't  you, 
ro  ?  You've  let  your  imagination  run  away  with  you." 

"This  isn't  a  new  thing  to  me.  It  began  —  I  don't  know  when 
it  began.  Yes ;  I  do.  Before  I  ever  knew  or  thought  of  you.  Oh, 
long  before !  When  I  was  no  more  than  a  baby." 

"Rede  me  your  riddle,  love,"  he  said  lightly. 

"It's  so  silly.  You  mustn't  laugh;  no,  you  wouldn't  laugh. 
But  you  mustn't  be  angry  with  me  for  being  a  fool.  Childhood 
impressions  are  terribly  lasting  things,  Ban. . .  .Yes,  I'm  going  to 
tell  you.  It  was  a  nurse  I  had  when  I  was  only  four,  I  think ; 
such  a  pretty,  dainty  Irish  creature,  the  pink-and-black  type. 
She  used  to  cry  over  me  and  say  —  I  don't  suppose  she  thought 
I  would  ever  understand  or  remember  — '  Beware  the  browri- 
eyed  boys,  darlin'.  False  an'  foul  they  are,  the  brown  ones. 
They  take  a  girl's  poor  heart  an'  witch  it  away  an'  twitch  it  away, 
an'  toss  it  back  all  crushed  an'  spoilt.'  Then  she  would  hug  me 
and  sob.  She.  left  soon  after ;  but  the  warning  has  haunted  me 


468  Success 

like  a  superstition Could  you  kiss  it  away,  Ban?  Tell  me 

I'm  a  little  fool!" 

Approaching  footsteps  broke  in  upon  them.  The  square  bulk 
of  Jim  Maitland  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"What  ho !  you  two.  Ban,  you're  scampin'  your  polo  practice 
shamefully.  You'll  be  crabbin'  the  team  if  you  don't  look  out. 
Dinin'  here?" 

"Yes,"  said  lo.  "Is  Marie  down?" 

"Comin'  presently.  How  about  a  couple  of  rubbers  after 
dinner?" 

To  assent  seemed  the  part  of  tact.  lo  and  Ban  went  to  their 
corner  table,  reserved  for  three,  the  third,  Archie  Densmore, 
being  a  prudent  fiction.  People  drifted  over  to  them,  chatted 
awhile,  were  carried  on  and  away  by  uncharted  but  normal 
social  currents.  It  was  a  tribute  to  the  accepted  status  between 
them  that  no  one  settled  into  the  third  chair.  The  Retreat  is  the 
dwelling-place  of  tact.  All  the  conversationalists  having  come 
and  gone,  lo  reverted  over  the  coffee  to  the  talk  of  their  hearts. 

"I  can't  expect  you  to  understand  me,  can  I?  Especially  as  I 
don't  understand  myself.  Don't  sulk,  Ban,  dearest.  You're  so 
un-pretty  when  you  pout." 

He  refused  to  accept  the  change  to  a  lighter  tone.  "I  under 
stand  this,  lo ;  that  you  have  begun  unaccountably  to  mistrust 
me.  That  hurts." 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you.  I'd  rather  hurt  myself ;  a  thousand 
times  rather.  Oh,  I  will  marry  you,  of  course,  when  the  time 
comes !  And  yet  — " 

"Yet?" 

"Isn't  it  strange,  that  deep-seated  misgiving!  I  suppose  it's 
my  woman's  dread  of  any  change.  It's  been  so  perfect  between 
us,  Ban."  Her  speech  dropped  to  its  lowest  breath  of  pure  music : 

"'This  test  for  love:  —  in  every  kiss,  sealed  fast 
To  feel  the  first  kiss  and  forebode  the  last ' — 

So  it  has  been  with  us ;  hasn't  it,  my  lover? " 

"So  it  shall  always  be,"  he  answered,  low  and  deep. 

Her  eyes  dreamed.  "How  coald  any  man  feel  what  he  put  in 

those  lines?''  she  murmured. j 


Fulfillment  469 


"Some  woman  taught  him,"  said  Banneker. 

She  threw  him  a  fairy  kiss.  "Why  haven't  we  'The  Voices' 
here !  You  should  read  to  me. ...  Do  you  ever  wish  we  were  back 
in  the  desert?" 

"  We  shall  be,  some  day." 

She  shuddered  a  little,  involuntarily.  "There's  a  sense  of 
recall,  isn't  there !  Do  you  still  love  it  ?  " 

"It's  the  beginning  of  the  Road  to  Happiness,"  he  said.  "The 
place  where  I  first  saw  you." 

"You  don't  care  for  many  things,  though,  Ban." 

"Not  many.  Only  two,  vitally.  You  and  the  paper." 

She  made  a  curious  reply  pregnant  of  meanings  which  were  to 
come  back  upon  him  afterward.  "I  shan't  be  jealous  of  that. 
Not  as  long  as  you're  true  to  it.  But  I  don't  think  you  care  for 
The  Patriot,  for  itself." 

"Oh,  don't  I!" 

"If  you  do,  it's  only  because  it's  part  of  you ;  your  voice ;  your 
power.  Because  it  belongs  to  you.  I  wonder  if  you  love  me 
mostly  for  the  same  reason." 

"Say,  the  reverse  reason.  Because  I  belong  so  entirely  to  you 
that  nothing  outside  really  matters  except  as  it  contributes  to 
you.  Can't  you  realize  and  believe?" 

"No;  I  shouldn't  be  jealous  of  the  paper,"  she  mused,  ignor 
ing  his  appeal.  Then,  with  a  sudden  transition:  "I  like  your 
Russell  Edmonds.  Am  I  wrong  or  is  there  a  kind  of  nobility  of 
mind  in  him?" 

"  Of  mind  and  soul.  You  would  be  the  one  to  see  it. 

1 the  nobleness  that  lies 

Sleeping  but  never  dead  in  other  men, 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own'" — 

he  quoted,  smiling  into  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  ever  talk  over  your  editorials  with  him  ?  " 
"Often.  He's  my  main  and  only  reliance,  politically." 
"Only  politically?  Does  he  ever  comment  on  other  editorials? 

The  one  on  Harvey  Wheelwright,  for  instance  ?  " 

Banneker  was  faintly  surprised.  "No.  Why  should  he?  Did 

you  discuss  that  with  him?" 


470  Success 

"  Indeed  not !  I  wouldn't  discuss  that  particular  editorial  with 
any  one  but  you." 

He  moved  uneasily.  "Aren't  you  attaching  undue  importance 
to  a  very  trivial  subject?  You  know  that  was  half  a  joke,  any 
way." 

"Was  it?"  she  murmured.  "Probably  I  take  it  too  seriously. 
But  —  but  Harvey  Wheelwright  came  into  one  of  our  early 
talks,  almost  our  first  about  real  things.  When  I  began  to  dis 
cover  you;  when  'The  Voices'  first  sang  to  us.  And  he  wasn't 
one  of  the  Voices,  exactly,  was  he  ?  " 

"He ?  He's  a  bray !  But  neither  was  Sears-Roebuck  one  of  the 
Voices.  Yet  you  liked  my  editorial  on  that." 

"I  adored  it!  You  believed  what  you  were  writing.  So  you 
made  it  beautiful." 

"Nothing  could  make  Harvey  Wheelwright  beautiful.  But,  at 
least,  you'll  admit  I  made  him  —  well,  appetizing."  His  face 
took  on  a  shade.  "Love's  labor  lost,  too,"  he  added.  "We  never 
did  run  the  Wheelwright  serial,  you  know." 

"Why?" 

"Because  the  infernal  idiot  had  to  go  and  divorce  a  perfectly 
respectable,  if  plain  and  middle-aged  wife,  in  order  to  marry  a 
quite  scandalous  Chicago  society  flapper." 

"What  connection  has  that  with  the  serial?  " 

"Don't  you  see?  Wheelwright  is  the  arch-deacon  of  the 
eternal  proprieties  and  pieties.  Purity  of  morals.  Hearth  and 
home.  Faithful  unto  death,  and  so  on.  Under  that  sign  he  con 
quers —  a  million  pious  and  snuffy  readers,  per  book.  Well, 
when  he  gets  himself  spread  in  the  Amalgamated  Wire  dis 
patches,  by  a  quick  divorce  and  a  hair-trigger  marriage,  puff  goes 
his  piety  —  and  his  hold  on  his  readers.  We  just  quietly  dropped 
him." 

"  But  his  serial  was  just  as  good  or  as  bad  as  before,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"Certainly  not!  Not  for  our  purposes.  He  was  a  dead  wolf 
with  his  sheep's  wool  all  smeared  and  spotted.  You'll  never  quite 
understand  the  newspaper  game,  I'm  afraid,  lady  of  my  heart." 

"How  brown  your  eyes  are,  Ban !"  said  lo. 


CHAPTER  XII 

POLITICS  began  to  bubble  in  The  Patriot  office  with  promise  of 
hotter  upheavals  to  come.  The  Laird  administration  had  shown 
its  intention  of  diverting  city  advertising,  and  Marrineal  had 
countered  in  the  news  columns  by  several  minor  but  not  ineffec 
tive  exposures  of  weak  spots  in  the  city  government.  Banneker, 
who  had  on  the  whole  continued  to  support  the  administration 
in  its  reform  plans,  decided  that  a  talk  with  Willis  Enderby  might 
clarify  the  position  and  accordingly  made  an  evening  appoint 
ment  with  him  at  his  house.  Judge  Enderby  opened  proceedings 
with  typical  directness  of  attack. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  turn  on  us,  Banneker?  " 

" That's  a  cheerful  question,"  retorted  the  young  man  good- 
humoredly,  "  considering  that  it  is  you  people  who  have  gone 
back  on  The  Patriot." 

"Were  any  pledges  made  on  our  part?"  queried  Enderby. 

Banneker  replied  with  some  spirit :  "Am  I  talking  with  counsel 
under  retainer  or  with  a  personal  friend  ?  " 

"Quite  right.  I  apologize,"  said  the  imperturbable  Enderby. 
"Goon." 

"  It  isn't  the  money  loss  that  counts,  so  much  as  the  slap  in  the 
face  to  the  paper.  It's  a  direct  repudiation.  You  must  realize 
that." 

"I'm  not  wholly  a  novice  in  politics." 

"But  I  am,  practically." 

"  Not  so  much  that  you  can't  see  what  Marrineal  would  be  at." 

"  Mr.  Marrineal  has  not  confided  in  me." 

"Nor  in  me,"  stated  the  lawyer  grimly.  "I  don't  need  his 
confidence  to  perceive  his  plans." 

"  What  do  you  believe  them  to  be  ?  " 

No  glimmer  of  a  smile  appeared  on  the  visage  of  Judge  En 
derby  as  he  countered,  "Am  I  talking  with  a  representative  of 
The  Patriot  or— " 

"All  right,"  laughed  Banneker.  "Touche!  Assume  that  Mar- 


472  Success 

rineal  has  political  ambitions.  Surely  that  lies  within  the  bounds 
of  propriety." 

"  Depends  on  how  he  pushes  them.  Do  you  read  The  Patriot, 
Banneker?" 

The  editor  of  The  Patriot  smiled. 

"Do  you  approve  its  methods  in,  let  us  say,  the  political  arti 
cles?" 

"I  have  no  control  over  the  news  columns." 

"Don't  answer  my  question,"  said  the  lawyer  with  a  fine 
effect  of  patience,  long-suffering  and  milky-mild,  "if  it  in  any 
way  discommodes  you." 

"It  all  comes  to  this,"  disclosed  Banneker.  "If  the  mayor 
turns  on  us,  we  can't  lie  down  under  the  whip  and  we  won't. 
We'll  hit  back." 

"Of  course." 

"Editorially,  I  mean." 

"I  understand.  At  least  the  editorials  will  be  a  direct  method 
of  attack,  and  an  honest  one.  I  may  assume  that  much?" 

"Have  you  ever  seen  anything  in  the  editorial  columns  of  The 
Patriot  that  would  lead  you  to  assume  otherwise?" 

"Answering  categorically  I  would  have  to  say  'No/ 

"Answer  as  you  please." 

"Then  I  will  say,"  observed  the  other,  speaking  with  marked 
deliberation,  "that  on  one  occasion  I  have  failed  to  see  matter 
which  I  thought  might  logically  appear  there  and  the  absence  of 
which  afforded  me  food  for  thought.  Do  you  know  Peter  Mc- 
Clintick?" 

"  Yes.  Has  he  been  talking  to  you  about  the  Veridian  killings  ? ;; 

Enderby  nodded.  "One  could  not  but  contrast  your  silence 
on  that  subject  with  your  eloquence  against  the  Steel  Trust 
persecutions,  consisting,  if  I  recall,  in  putting  agitators  in  jail  for 
six  months.  Quite  wrongly,  I  concede.  But  hardly  as  bad  as, 
shooting  them  down  as  they  sleep,  and  their  families  with  them.'* 

"Tell  me  what  you  would  have  done  in  my  place,  then." 
Banneker  stated  the  case  of  the  Veridian  Mills  strike  simply  and 
fairly.  "Could  I  turn  the  columns  of  his  own  paper  on  Marri- 
neal  for  what  was  not  even  his  fault?" 


Fulfillment  473 


"Impossible.  Absurd,  as  well,"  acknowledged  the  other 

"Can  you  even  criticize  Marrineal?" 

The  jurist  reared  his  gaunt,  straight  form  up  from  his  chair 
and  walked  across  to  the  window,  peering  out  into  the  darkness 
before  he  answered  with  a  sort  of  restrained  passion. 

"God  o'  mercies,  Banneker!  Do  you  ask  me  to  judge  other 
men's  acts,  outside  the  rules  of  law?  Haven't  I  enough  problems 
in  reconciling  my  own  conscience  to  conserving  the  interests  of 
my  clients,  as  I  must,  in  honor,  do?  No ;  no !  Don't  expect  me 
to  judge,  in  any  matter  of  greater  responsibilities.  I'm  answer 
able  to  a  small  handful  of  people.  You  —  your  Patriot  is  answer 
able  to  a  million.  Everything  you  print,  everything  you  with 
hold,  may  have  incalculable  influence  on  the  minds  of  men.  You 
can  corrupt  or  enlighten  them  with  a  word.  Think  of  it !  Under 
such  a  weight  Atlas  would  be  crushed.  There  was  a  time  long 
ago  —  about  the  time  when  you  were  born  —  when  I  thought 
that  I  might  be  a  journalist ;  thought  it  lightly.  To-day,  know 
ing  what  I  know,  I  should  be  terrified  to  attempt  it  for  a  week, 
a  day !  I  tell  you,  Banneker,  one  who  moulds  the  people's  beliefs 
ought  to  have  the  wisdom  of  a  sage  and  the  inspiration  of  a 
prophet  and  the  selflessness  of  a  martyr." 

A  somber  depression  veiled  Banneker.  "One  must  have  the 
sense  of  authority,  too,"  he  said  at  length  with  an  effort.  "If 
that  is  undermined,  you  lose  everything.  I'll  fight  for  that." 

With  an  abrupt  motion  his  host  reached  up  and  drew  the  win 
dow  shade,  as  it  might  be  to  shut  out  a  darkness  too  deep  for 
human  penetration. 

"What  does  your  public  care  about  whether  The  Patriot  loses 
the  city  advertising;  or  even  know  about  it?" 

"Not  the  public.  But  the  other  newspapers.  They'll  know, 
and  they'll  use  it  against  us. ...  Enderby,  we  can  beat  Bob  Laird 
for  reelection." 

"If  that's  a  threat,"  returned  the  lawyer  equably,  "it  is  made 
to  the  wrong  person.  I  couldn't  control  Laird  in  this  matter  if  I 
wanted  to.  He's  an  obstinate  young  mule  —  for  which  Heaven 
be  praised ! " 

"No ;  it  isn't  a  threat.  It's  a  declaration  of  war,  if  you  like." 


474  Success 

"You  think  you  can  beat  us?  With  Marrineal?" 

"Mr.  Marrineal  isn't  an  avowed  candidate,  is  he?"  evaded 
Banneker. 

"I  fancy  that  you'll  see  some  rapidly  evolving  activity  in  that 
quarter." 

"Is  it  true  that  Laird  has  developed  social  tendencies,  ana  is 
using  the  mayoralty  to  climb  ?  " 

"A  silly  story  of  his  enemies,"  answered  Enderby  contempt 
uously.  "Just  the  sort  of  thing  that  Marrineal  would  naturally 
get  hold  of  and  use.  In  so  far  as  Laird  has  any  social  relations, 
they  are  and  always  have  been  with  that  element  which  your 
society  reporters  call '  the  most  exclusive  circles,'  because  that  is 
where  he  belongs  by  birth  and  association." 

"Russell  Edmonds  says  that  social  ambition  is  the  only  road 
on  which  one  climbs  painfully  downhill. " 

The  other  paid  the  tribute  of  a  controlled  smile  to  this.  "Ed 
monds?  A  Socialist.  He  has  a  gnarled  mind.  Good,  hard-grained 
wood,  though.  I  suppose  no  man  more  thoroughly  hates  and 
despises  what  I  represent  —  or  what  he  thinks  I  represent,  the 
conservative  force  of  moneyed  power  —  than  he  does.  Yet  in 
any  question  of  professional  principles,  I  would  trust  him  far; 
yes,  and  of  professional  perceptions,  too,  I  think ;  which  is  more 
difficult.  A  crack-brained  sage ;  but  wise.  Have  you  talked  over 
the  Laird  matter  with  him?" 

"Yes.  He's  for  Laird." 

"  Stick  to  Edmonds,  Banneker.  You  can't  find  a  better  guide." 

There  was  desultory  talk  until  the  caller  got  up  to  go.  As 
they  shook  hands,  Enderby  said : 

"Has  any  one  been  tracking  you  lately?" 

"No.  Not  that  I've  noticed." 

"There  was  a  fellow  lurking  suspiciously  outside;  heavy-set, 
dark  clothes,  soft  hat.  I  thought  that  he  might  be  watching  you." 

For  a  man  of  Banneker's  experience  of  the  open,  to  detect  the 
cleverest  of  trailing  was  easy.  Although  this  watcher  was  sly  and 
careful  in  his  pursuit,  which  took  him  all  the  way  to  Chelsea  Vil 
lage,  his  every  move  was  clear  to  the  quarry,  until  the  door  of  The 
House  With  Three  Eyes  closed  upon  its  owner.  Banneker  went 


Fulfillment  475 

to  bed  very  uneasy.  On  whose  behoof  was  he  being  shadowed  ? 
Should  he  warn  lo  ? . . .  In  the  morning  there  was  no  trace  of  the 
man,  nor,  though  Banneker  trained  every  sharpened  faculty  to 
watchfulness,  did  he  see  him  again. . . .  While  he  was  mentally 
engrossed  in  wholly  alien  considerations,  the  solution  material 
ized  out  of  nothing  to  his  inner  vision.  It  was  Willis  Enderby  who 
was  being  watched,  and,  as  a  side  issue,  any  caller  upon  him. 
That  evening  a  taxi,  occupied  by  a  leisurely  young  man  in  eve 
ning  clothes,  drove  through  East  68th  Street,  where  stood  the 
Enderby  house,  dim,  proud,  and  stiff.  The  taxi  stopped  before  a 
mansion  not  far  away,  and  the  young  man  addressed  a  heavy- 
bodied  individual  who  stood,  with  vacant  face  uplifted  to  the 
high  moon,  as  if  about  to  bay  it.  Said  the  young  man : 

"Mr.  Ives  wishes  you  to  report  to  him  at  once." 

"Huh  ?  "  ejaculated  the  other,  lowering  his  gaze. 

"At  the  usual  place,"  pursued  the  young  man. 

"Oh!  Aw-right." 

His  suspicions  fully  confirmed,  Banneker  drove  away.  It  was 
now  Ives's  move,  he  remarked  to  himself,  smiling.  Or  perhaps 
Marrineal's.  He  would  wait.  Within  a  few  days  he  had  his 
opportunity.  Returning  to  his  office  after  luncheon,  he  found  a 
penciled  note  from  Ives  on  his  desk,  notifying  him  that  Miss 
Raleigh  had  called  him  on  the  'phone. 

Inquiring  for  the  useful  Ives,  Banneker  learned  that  he  was 
closeted  with  Marrineal.  Such  conferences  were  regarded  in  the 
office  as  inviolable ;  but  Banneker  was  in  uncompromising  mood. 
He  entered  with  no  more  of  preliminary  than  a  knock.  After 
giving  his  employer  good-day  he  addressed  Ives. 

"  I  found  a  note  from  you  on  my  desk." 

"Yes.  The  message  came  half  an  hour  ago." 

"Through  the  office?" 

"No.  On  your 'phone." 

"How  did  you  get  into  my  room? " 

"The  door  was  open." 

Banneker  reflected.  This  was  possible,  though  usually  he  left 
his  door  locked.  He  decided  to  accept  the  explanation.  Later  he 
had  occasion  to  revise  it. 


476  Success 

"Much  obliged.  By  the  way,  on  whose  authority  did  you  put 
a  shadow  on  Judge  Enderby?" 

"On  mine,"  interposed  Marrineal.  "Mr.  Ives  has  full  dis 
cretion  in  these  matters." 

"But  what  is  the  idea?" 

Ives  delivered  himself  of  his  pet  theory.  "They'll  all  bear 
watching.  It  may  come  in  handy  some  day." 

"What  may?" 

"Anything  we  can  get." 

"What  on  earth  could  any  but  an  insane  man  expect  to  get  on 
Enderby?"  contemptuously  asked  Banneker. 

Shooting  a  covert  look  at  his  principal,  Ives  either  received  or 
assumed  a  permission.  "Well,  there  was  some  kind  of  an  old 
scandal,  you  know." 

"Was  there?"  Banneker's  voice  was  negligent.  "That  would 
be  hard  to  believe." 

"Hard  to  get  hold  of  in  any  detail.  I've  dug  some  of  it  out 
through  my  Searchlight  connection.  Very  useful  line,  that." 

Ives  ventured  a  direct  look  at  Banneker,  but  diverted  it  from 
the  cold  stare  it  encountered. 

"  Some  woman  scrape,"  he  explicated  with  an  effort  at  airiness. 

Banneker  turned  a  humiliating  back  on  him.  "The  Patriot  is 
beginning  to  get  a  bad  name  on  Park  Row  for  this  sort  of  thing," 
he  informed  Marrineal. 

"This  isn't  a  Patriot  matter.  It  is  private." 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Banneker  in  disgust.  "After  all,  it 
doesn't  matter.  You'll  have  your  trouble  for  your  pains,"  he 
prophesied,  and  returned  to  'phone  Betty  Raleigh. 

What  had  become  of  Banneker,  Betty's  gay  and  pure-toned 
voice  demanded  over  the  wire.  Had  he  eschewed  the  theater  and 
all  its  works  for  good?. .  .Too  busy?. .  .Was  that  a  reason  also 
for  eschewing  his  friends  ? .  .  .  He'd  never  meant  to  do  that  ?  Let 
him  prove  it  then  by  coming  up  to  see  her.  . . .  Yes ;  at  once. 
Something  special  to  be  talked  over. 

It  was  a  genuine  surprise  to  Banneker  to  find  that  he  had  not 
seen  the  actress  for  nearly  two  months.  Certainly  he  had  not 
specially  missed  her,  yet  it  was  keenly  pleasurable  to  be  brought 


Fulfillment  477 


into  contact  again  with  that  restless,  vital,  outgiving  person 
ality.  She  looked  tired  and  a  little  dispirited  and  —  for  she  was 
of  that  rare  type  in  which  weariness  does  not  dim,  but  rather 
qualifies  and  differentiates  its  beauty  —  quite  as  lovely  as  he  had 
ever  seen  her.  The  query  which  gave  him  his  clue  to  her  special 
and  immediate  interest  was : 

"Why  is  Haslett  leaving  The  Patriot?"  Haslett  was  the 
Chicago  critic  transplanted  to  take  Gurney's  place. 

"Is  he?  I  didn't  know.  You  ought  not  to  mourn  his  loss, 
Betty." 

"But  I  do.  At  least,  I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to.  Do  you  know 
who  the  new  critic  is?" 

"No.  Do  you?  And  how  do  you?  Oh,  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
understand  that,  though,"  he  added,  annoyed  that  so  important 
a  change  should  have  been  kept  secret  from  him. 

With  characteristic  directness  she  replied,  '*  You  mean  Tertius 
Marrineal?" 

"Naturally." 

"That's  all  off." 

"Betty!  Your  engagement  to  him?" 

"So  far  as  there  ever  was  any." 

"Is  it  really  off?  Or  have  you  only  quarreled?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  can't  imagine  myself  quarreling  with  Tertius. 
He's  too  impersonal.  For  the  same  reason,  and  others,  I  can't 
see  myself  marrying  him." 

"But  you  must  have  considered  it,  for  a  time." 

"Not  very  profoundly.  I  don't  want  to  marry  a  newspaper. 
Particularly  such  a  newspaper  as  The  Patriot.  For  that  matter, 
I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody,  and  I  won't !" 

"That  being  disposed  of,  what's  the  matter  with  The  Patriot? 
It's  been  treating  you  with  distinguished  courtesy  ever  since 
Marrineal  took  over  charge." 

"It  has.  That's  part  of  his  newspaperishness." 

"  From  our  review  of  your  new  play  I  judge  that  it  was  written 
by  the  shade  of  Shakespeare  in  collaboration  with  the  ghost  of 
Moliere,  and  that  your  acting  in  it  combines  all  the  genius  of 
Rachel,  Kean,  Booth,  Mrs.  Siddons,  and  the  Divine  Sarah." 


478  Success 

"This  is  no  laughing  matter,"  she  protested.  "Have  you  seen 
the  play?" 

"No.  I'll  go  to-night." 

"Don't.  It's  rotten." 

"  Heavens ! "  he  cried  in  mock  dismay.  "  What  does  this  mean  ? 
Our  most  brilliant  young  — " 

"And  I'm  as  bad  as  the  play  —  almost.  The  part  doesn't  fit 
me.  It's  a  fool  part." 

"Are  you  quarreling  with  The  Patriot  because  it  has  tempered 
justice  with  mercy  in  your  case?" 

"Mercy?  With  slush.  Slathering  slush." 

"  Come  to  my  aid,  Memory !  Was  it  not  a  certain  Miss 
Raleigh  who  aforetime  denounced  the  ruffian  Gurney  for  that  he 
vented  his  wit  upon  a  play  in  which  she  appeared.  And  now, 
because  — " 

"Yes;  it  was.  I've  no  use  for  the  smart-aleck  school  of  criti 
cism.  But,  at  least,  what  Gurney  wrote  was  his  own.  And 
Haslett,  even  if  he  is  an  old  grouch,  was  honest.  You  couldn't 
buy  their  opinions  over  the  counter." 

Banneker  frowned.  "  I  think  you'd  better  explain,  Betty." 

"Do  you  know  Gene  Zucker?" 

"Never  heard  of  him." 

"He's  a  worm.  A  fat,  wiggly,  soft  worm  from  Boston.  But  he's 
got  an  idea." 

"And  that  is?" 

"I'll  tell  you  in  a  moment."  She  leaned  forward  fixing  him 
with  the  honest  clarity  of  her  eyes.  "Ban,  if  I  tell  you  that  I'm 
really  devoted  to  my  art,  that  I  believe  in  it  as  —  as  a  mission, 
that  the  theater  is  as  big  a  thing  to  me  as  The  Patriot  is  to  you, 
you  won't  think  me  an  affected  little  prig,  will  you?" 

"Of  course  not,  Betty.  I  know  you." 

"Yes.  I  think  you  do.  But  you  don't  know  your  own  paper. 
Zucker's  big  idea,  which  he  sold  to  Tertius  Marrineal  together 
with  his  precious  self,  is  that  the  dramatic  critic  should  be  the 
same  identical  person  as  the  assistant  advertising  manager  in 
charge  of  theater  advertising,  and  that  Zucker  should  be  both." 

"Hell!"  snapped  Banneker.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Betty." 


Fulfillment  479 

"Don't.  I  quite  agree  with  you.  Isn't  it  complete  and  per 
fect?  Zucker  gets  his  percentage  of  the  advertising  revenue 
which  he  brings  in  from  the  theaters.  Therefore,  will  he  be  kind 
to  those  attractions  which  advertise  liberally  ?  And  less  kind  to 
those  which  fail  to  appreciate  The  Patriot  as  a  medium  ?  I  trow 
that  he  will!  Pay  your  dollar  and  get  vour  puff.  Dramatic 
criticism  strictly  up  to  date." 

Banneker  looked  at  her  searchingly.  "Is  that  why  you  broke 
with  Marrineal,  Betty?" 

"Not  exactly.  No.  This  Zucker  deal  came  afterward.  But  I 
think  I  had  begun  to  see  what  sort  of  principles  Tertius  repre 
sented.  You  and  I  aren't  children,  Ban :  I  can  talk  straight  talk 
to  you.  Well,  there's  prostitution  on  the  stage,  of  course.  Not 
so  much  of  it  as  outsiders  think,  but  more  than  enough.  I've 
kept  myself  free  of  any  contact  with  it.  That  being  so,  I'm  cer 
tainly  not  going  to  associate  myself  with  that  sort  of  thing  in 
another  field. . .  .  Ban,  I've  made  the  management  refuse  Zucker 
admittance  to  the  theater.  And  he  gave  the  play  a  wonderful 
send-off,  as  you  know.  Of  course,  Tertius  would  have  him  do 
that." 

Rising,  Banneker  walked  over  and  soberly  shook  the  girl's 
hand.  "Betty,  you're  a  fine  and  straight  and  big  little  person. 
I'm  proud  to  know  you.  And  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  that  I  can 
do  nothing.  Not  now,  anyway.  Later,  perhaps ..." 

"No;  I  suppose  you  can't,"  she  said  listlessly.  "But  you'll 
be  interested  in  seeing  how  the  Zucker  system  works  out ;  a  half- 
page  ad.  in  the  Sunday  edition  gets  a  special  signed  and  illus 
trated  feature  article,  a  quarter-page  only  a  column  of  ordinary 
press  stuff.  A  full  page  —  I  don't  know  what  he'll  offer  for  that. 
An  editorial  by  E.  B.  perhaps." 

"Betty!" 

"Forgive  me,  Ban.  I'm  sick  at  heart  over  it  all.  Of  course,  I 
know  you  wouldn't." 

Going  back  in  his  car,  Banneker  reflected  with  profound  dis 
taste  that  the  plan  upon  which  he  was  hired  was  not  essentially 
different  from  the  Zucker  scheme,  in  Marrineal's  intent.  He,  toof 
was  —  if  Marrineal's  idea  worked  out  —  to  draw  down  a  per- 


480  Success 

centage  varying  in  direct  ratio  to  his  suppleness  in  accommo 
dating  his  writings  to  "the  best  interests  of  the  paper."  He 
swore  that  he  would  see  The  Patriot  and  its  proprietor  eternally 
damned  before  he  would  again  aiter  jot  or  tittle  of  his  editorial 
expression  with  reference  to  any  future  benefit. 

It  did  not  take  long  for  Mr.  Zucker  to  manifest  his  presence  to 
Banneker  through  a  line  asking  for  an  interview,  written  in  a 
neat,  small  hand  upon  a  card  reading: 

The  Patriot  —  Special  Theatrical  Features 
E.  Zucker,  Representative. 

Mr.  Zucker,  being  sent  for,  materialized  as  a  buoyant  little  per 
son,  richly  ornamented  with  his  own  initials  in  such  carefully 
chosen  locations  as  his  belt-buckle,  his  cane,  and  his  cigarettes. 
He  was,  he  explained,  injecting  some  new  and  profitable  novel 
ties  into  the  department  of  dramatic  criticism. 

"Just  a  moment,"  quoth  Banneker.  "I  thought  that  Allan 
Haslett  had  come  on  from  Chicago  to  be  our  dramatic  critic." 

"Oh,  he  and  the  business  office  didn't  hit  it  off  very  well," 
said  little  Zucker  carelessly. 

"Oh !  And  do  you  hit  it  off  pretty  well  with  the  business  office  ?  " 

"Naturally.  It  was  Mr.  Haring  brougiit  me  on  here;  I'm  a 
special  departmental  manager  in  the  advertising  department." 

"Your  card  would  hardly  give  the  impression.  It  suggests  the 
news  rather  than  the  advertising  side." 

"I'm  both,"  stated  Mr.  Zucker,  brightly  beaming.  "I  handle 
the  criticism  and  the  feature  stuff  on  salary,  and  solicit  the  adver 
tising,  on  a  percentage.  It  works  out  fine." 

"  So  one  might  suppose."  Banneker  looked  at  him  hard.  "The 
idea  being,  if  I  get  it  correctly,  that  a  manager  who  gives  you  a 
good,  big  line  of  advertising  can  rely  on  considerate  treatment  in 
the  dramatic  column  of  The  Patriot." 

"Well,  there's  no  bargain  to  that  effect.  That  wouldn't  be 
classy  for  a  big  paper  like  ours,"  replied  the  high-  if  somewhat 
naive-minded  Mr.  Zucker.  "Of  course,  the  managers  under 
stand  that  one  good  turn  deserves  another,  and  I  ain't  the  man  to 
roast  a  friend  that  her,  s  me  out.  I  started  the  scheme  in  Boston 
and  doubled  the  theater  revenue  of  my  paper  there  in  a  year." 


Fulfillment  481 


"I'm  immensely  interested,"  confessed  Banneker.  "But  what 
is  your  idea  in  coming  to  me  about  this?" 

"Big  stuff,  Mr.  Banneker,"  answered  the  earnest  Zucker  He 
laid  a  jeweled  hand  upon  the  other's  knee,  and  removed  it 
because  some  vestige  of  self-protective  instinct  warned  him  that 
that  was  not  the  proper  place  for  it.  "You  may  have  noticed 
that  we've  been  running  a  lot  of  special  theater  stuff  in  the  Sun 
day."  Banneker  nodded.  "That's  all  per  schedule,  as  worked 
out  by  me.  An  eighth  of  a  page  ad.  gets  an  article.  A  quarter 
page  ad.  gets  a  signed  special  by  me.  Haffa  page  wins  a  grand 
little  send-off  by  Bess  Breezely  with  her  own  illustrations.  Now, 
I'm  figuring  on  full  pages.  If  I  could  go  to  a  manager  and  say : 
'Gimme  a  full-page  ad.  for  next  Sunday  and  I'll  see  if  I  can't  get 
Mr.  Banneker  to  do  an  editorial  on  the  show'  —  if  I  could  say 
that,  why,  no  thin'  to  it !  No  thin'  at- tall !  Of  course,"  he  added 
ruminatively,  "I'd  have  to  pick  the  shows  pretty  careful." 

"Perhaps  you'd  like  to  write  the  editorials,  too,"  suggested 
Banneker  with  baleful  mildness. 

"I  thought  of  that,"  admitted  the  other.  "But  I  don't  know 
as  I  could  get  the  swing  of  your  style.  You  certainly  got  a  style, 
Mr.  Banneker." 

"Thank  you." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  this.  I'll  look  over  next  Sunday's  advertising,  particu 
larly  the  large  ads.,  and  if  there  is  a  good  subject  in  any  of  the 
shows,  I'll  try  to  do  something  about  it." 

"Fine!"  enthused  the  unsuspecting  pioneer  of  business- 
dramatic  criticism.  "It's  a  pleasure  to  work  with  a  gentleman 
like  you,  Mr.  Banneker." 

Withdrawing,  even  more  pleased  with  himself  than  was  his 
wont,  Mr.  Zucker  confided  to  Haring  that  the  latter  was  totally 
mistaken  in  attributing  a  stand-offish  attitude  to  Banneker. 
Why,  you  couldn't  ask  for  a  more  reasonable  man.  Saw  the 
point  at  once. 

"Don't  you  go  making  any  fool  promises  on  the  strength  of 
what  Banneker  said  to  you,"  commented  Haring. 

With  malign  relish,  Banneker  looked  up  in  the  Sunday  adver- 


482  Success 

tising  the  leading  theater  display,  went  to  the  musical  comedy 
there  exploited,  and  presently  devoted  a  column  to  giving  it  a 
terrific  and  only  half-merited  slashing  for  vapid  and  gratuitous 
indecency.  The  play,  which  had  been  going  none  too  well, 
straightway  sold  out  a  fortnight  in  advance,  thereby  attesting 
the  power  of  the  press  as  well  as  the  appeal  of  pruriency  to  an 
eager  and  jaded  public.  Zucker  left  a  note  on  the  editorial  desk 
warmly  thanking  his  confrere  for  this  evidence  of  cooperation. 

Life  was  practicing  its  lesser  ironies  upon  Banneker  whilst 
maturing  its  greater  ones. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  the  regular  course  of  political  events,  Laird  was  renominated 
on  a  fusion  ticket.  Thereupon  the  old  ring,  which  had  so  long 
battened  on  the  corruption  of  local  government,  put  up  a  sleek 
and  presentable  figurehead.  Marrineal  nominated  himself  amidst 
the  Homeric  laughter  of  the  professional  politicians.  How's  he 
goin'  to  get  anywhere,  they  demanded  with  great  relish  of  the 
joke,  when  he  ain't  got  any  organization  at-tall !  Presently  the 
savor  oozed  out  of  that  joke.  Marrineal,  it  appeared,  did  have 
an  organization,  of  sorts;  worse,  he  had  gathered  to  him,  by 
methods  not  peculiarly  his  own,  the  support  of  the  lesser  East- 
Side  foreign  language  press,  which  may  or  may  not  have  believed 
in  his  protestations  of  fealty  to  the  Common  People,  but  cer 
tainly  did  appreciate  the  liberality  of  his  political  advertising 
appropriation,  advertising,  in  this  sense,  to  be  accorded  its  freest 
interpretation.  Worst  of  all,  he  had  Banneker. 

Banneker's  editorials,  not  upon  Marrineal  himself  (for  he 
was  too  shrewd  for  that),  but  upon  the  cause  of  which  Marri 
neal  was  standard-bearer,  were  persuasive,  ingenious,  forceful, 
and,  to  the  average  mind,  convincing.  Was  Banneker  himself 
convinced?  It  was  a  question  which  he  resolutely  refused  to 
follow  to  its  logical  conclusion.  Of  the  justice  of  the  creed  which 
The  Patriot  upheld,  he  was  perfectly  confident.  But  did  Mar 
rineal  represent  that  creed?  Did  he  represent  anything  but 
Marrineal?  Stifling  his  misgivings,  Banneker  flung  himself  the 
more  determinedly  into  the  fight.  It  became  apparent  that  he 
was  going  to  swing  an  important  fraction  of  the  labor  vote, 
despite  the  opposition  of  such  clear-eyed  leaders  as  McClintick. 
To  this  extent  he  menaced  the  old  ring  rather  than  the  forces  of 
reform,  led  by  Laird  and  managed  by  Enderby.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  was  drawing  from  Laird,  in  so  far  as  he  still  influenced 
the  voters  who  had  followed  The  Patriot  in  its  original  support 
of  the  reform  movement.  That  Marrineal  could  not  be  elected, 
both  of  his  opponents  firmly  believed;  and  in  this  belief,  not- 


484  Success 

withstanding  his  claims  of  forthcoming  victory,  the  independent 
candidate  privately  concurred.  It  would  be  enough,  for  the  time, 
to  defeat  decisively  whichever  rival  he  turned  his  heaviest  guns 
upon  in  the  final  onset;  that  would  insure  his  future  political 
prestige.  Thus  far,  in  his  speeches,  he  had  hit  out  impartially 
at  both  sides,  denouncing  the  old  ring  for  its  corruption,  girding 
at  Laird  as  a  fake  reformer  secretly  committed  to  Wall  Street 
through  Judge  Enderby,  corporation  lawyer,  as  intermediary. 

Herein  Banneker  had  refrained  from  following  him.  Ever  the 
cat  at  the  hole's  mouth,  the  patient  lurker,  the  hopeful  waiter 
upon  the  event,  the  proprietor  of  The  Patriot  forbore  to  press 
his  editorial  chief.  He  still  mistrusted  the  strength  of  his  hold 
upon  Banneker;  feared  a  defiance  when  he  could  ill  afford  to 
meet  it.  What  he  most  hoped  was  some  development  which 
would  turn  Banneker's  heavy  guns  upon  Laird  so  that,  with  the 
defeat  of  the  fusion  ticket  candidate,  the  public  would  say,  "The 
Patriot  made  him  and  The  Patriot  broke  him." 

Laird  played  into  Marrineal's  hands.  Indignant  at  what  he 
regarded  as  a  desertion  of  principles  by  The  Patriot,  the  fusion 
nominee,  in  one  of  his  most  important  addresses,  devoted  a 
stinging  ten  minutes  to  a  consideration  of  that  paper,  its  pro 
prietor,  and  its  editorial  writer,  in  its  chosen  role  of  "friend  of 
labor."  His  text  was  the  Veridian  strike,  his  information  the 
version  which  McClintick  furnished  him ;  he  cited  Banneker  by 
name,  and  challenged  him  as  a  prostituted  mind  and  a  corrupted 
pen.  Though  Laird  had  spoken  as  he  honestly  believed,  he  did 
not  have  the  whole  story ;  McClintick,  in  his  account,  had  ig 
nored  the  important  fact  that  Marrineal,  upon  being  informed 
of  conditions,  had  actually  (no  matter  what  his  motive)  remedied 
them.  Banneker,  believing  that  Laird  was  fully  apprised,  as  he 
knew  Enderby  to  be,  was  outraged.  This  alleged  reformer,  this 
purist  in  politics,  this  apostle  of  honor  and  truth,  was  holding 
him  up  to  contumely,  through  half-truths,  for  a  course  which 
an}'  decent  man  must,  in  conscience,  have  followed.  He  com 
posed  a  seething  editorial,  tore  it  up,  substituted  another  wherein 
he  made  reply  to  the  charges,  in  a  spirit  of  ingenuity  rather  than 
ingenuousness,  for  The  Patriot  case,  while  sound,  was  one  which 


Fulfillment  485 


could  not  well  be  thrown  open  to  The  Patriot's  public;  and 
planned  vengeance  when  the  time  should  come. 

lo,  on  a  brief  trip  from  Philadelphia,  lunched  with  him  that 
week,  and  found  him  distrait. 

"It's  only  politics,"  he  said.  "You're  not  interested  in  poli 
tics,"  and,  as  usual,  "Let's  talk  about  you." 

She  gave  him  that  look  which  was  like  a  smile  deep  in  the 
shadows  of  her  eyes.  "Ban,  do  you  know  the  famous  saying  of 
Terence?" 

He  quoted  the  "Homo  sum."  "That  one?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  "Now,  hear  my  version :  'I  am  a  woman ;  noth 
ing  that  touches  my  man  is  alien  to  my  interests.' " 

He  laughed.  But  there  was  a  note  of  gratitude  in  his  voice, 
almost  humble,  as  he  said:  "You're  the  only  woman  in  the 
world,  lo,  who  can  quote  the  classics  and  not  seem  a  prig." 

"That's  because  I'm  beautiful,"  she  retorted  impudently. 
"Tell  me  I'm  beautiful,  Ban !" 

"You're  the  loveliest  witch  in  the  world,"  he  cried. 

"So  much  for  flattery.  Now  —  politics." 

He  recounted  the  Laird  charges. 

"  No ;  that  wasn't  fair,"  she  agreed.  "  It  was  most  unfair.  But 
I  don't  believe  Bob  Laird  knew  the  whole  story.  Did  you  ask 
him?" 

"Ask  him?  I  certainly  did  not.  You  don't  understand  much 
about  politics,  dearest." 

"I  was  thinking  of  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  newspaper. 
If  you're  going  to  answer  him  in  The  Patriot,  I  should  think 
you'd  want  to  know  just  what  his  basis  was.  Besides,  if  he's 
wrong,  I  believe  he'd  take  it  back." 

"After  all  the  damage  has  been  done.  He  won't  get  the 
chance."  Banneker's  jaw  set  firm. 

"What  shall  you  do  now?" 

"Wait  my  chance,  load  my  pen,  and  shoot  to  kill." 

"Let  me  see  the  editorial  before  you  print  it." 

"  All  right,  Miss  Meddlesome.  But  you  won't  let  your  ideas  of 
fair  play  run  away  with  you  and  betray  me  to  the  enemy? 
You're  a  Laird  man,  aren't  you?" 


486  Success 

Her  voice  fell  to  a  caressing  half-note.  "I'm  a  Banneker 
woman  —  in  everything.  Won't  you  ever  remember  that?" 

"No.  You'll  never  be  that.  You'll  always  be  lo;  yourself; 
remote  and  unattainable  in  the  deeper  sense." 

"Do  you  say  that?"  she  answered. 

"Oh,  don't  think  that  I  complain.  You've  made  life  a  living 
glory  for  me.  Yet"  —his  face  grew  wistful  —  "I  suppose — I 
don't  know  how  to  say  it  —  I'm  like  the  shepherd  in  the  poem, 

'  Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade.' 

lo,  why  do  I  always  think  in  poetry,  when  I'm  with  you  ?  " 

"I  want  you  always  to,"  she  said,  which  was  a  more  than 
sufficient  answer. 

lo  had  been  back  in  Philadelphia  several  days,  and  had 
'phoned  Banneker  that  she  was  coming  over  on  the  following 
Tuesday,  when,  having  worked  at  the  office  until  early  evening, 
he  ran  around  the  corner  to  Katie's  for  dinner.  At  the  big  table 
"Bunny"  Fitch  of  The  Record  was  holding  forth. 

Fitch  was  that  invaluable  type  of  the  political  hack-writer, 
a  lackey  of  the  mind,  instinctively  subservient  to  his  paper's 
slightest  opinion,  hating  what  it  hates,  loving  what  it  loves,  with 
the  servile  adherence  of  a  mediaeval  churchman.  As  The  Record 
was  bitter  upon  reform,  its  proprietor  having  been  sadly  disillu 
sioned  in  youth  by  a  lofty  but  abortive  experiment  in  perfecting 
human  nature  from  which  he  never  recovered,  Bunny  lost  no 
opportunity  to  damn  all  reformers. 

"Can't  you  imagine  the  dirty  little  snob,"  he  was  saying,  as 
Banneker  entered,  "creeping  and  fawning  and  cringing  for  their 
favors?  Up  for  membership  at  The  Retreat.  Dines  with  Poult- 
ney  Masters,  Jr.,  at  his  club.  Can't  you  hear  him  running  home 
to  wine  all  het  up  and  puffed  like  a  toad,  and  telling  her  about  it  ?" 

"Who's  all  this,  Bunny?"  inquired  Banneker,  who  had 
taken  in  only  the  last  few  words. 

"Our  best  little  society  climber,  the  Honorable  Robert  Laird," 
returned  the  speaker,  and  reverted  to  his  inspirational  pen- 
picture  :  "  Runs  home  to  wine  and  crows,  'What  do  you  think,  my 
dear  J  lunior  Masters  called  me  'Bob'  to-day !" 


Fulfillment  487 

In  a  flash,  the  murderous  quality  of  the  thing  bit  into  Banne- 
ker's  sensitive  brain.  "Junior  Masters  called  me  'Bob'  to-day." 
The  apotheosis  of  snobbery !  Swift  and  sure  poison  for  the  enemy 
if  properly  compounded  with  printer's  ink.  How  pat  it  fitted  in 
with  the  carefully  fostered  conception,  insisted  upon  in  every 
speech  by  Marrineal,  of  the  mayor  as  a  Wall  Street  and  Fifth 
Avenue  tool  and  toady ! 

But  what  exactly  had  Bunny  Fitch  said?  Was  he  actually 
quoting  Laird?  If  so,  direct  or  from  hearsay?  Or  was  he  merely 
paraphrasing  or  perhaps  only  characterizing?  There  was  a  dim 
ring  in  Banneker's  cerebral  ear  of  previous  words,  half  taken  in, 
which  would  indicate  the  latter  —  and  ruin  the  deadly  plan, 
strike  the  poison-dose  from  his  hand.  Should  he  ask  Fitch  ?  Pin 
him  down  to  the  details? 

The  character-sketcher  was  now  upon  the  subject  of  Judge 
Enderby.  "  Sly  old  wolf!  Wants  to  be  senator  one  of  these  days. 
Or  maybe  governor.  A  'receptive'  candidate!  Wah !  Pulls 
every  wire  he  can  lay  hand  on,  and  then  waits  for  the  honor  to  be 
forced  upon  him.  .  .  .  Good  Lord !  It's  eight  o'clock.  I'm  late." 

Dropping  a  bill  on  the  table  he  hurried  out.  Half-minded  to 
stop  him,  Banneker  took  a  second  thought.  Why  should  he? 
His  statement  had  been  definite.  Anyway,  he  could  be  called 
.up  on  the  morrow.  Dining  hastily  and  in  deep,  period-building 
thought,  Banneker  returned  to  the  office,  locked  himself  in,  and 
with  his  own  hand  drafted  the  editorial  built  on  that  phrase  of 
petty  and  terrific  import:  "Junior  Masters  called  me  'Bob' 
to-day." 

After  it  was  written  he  would  not  for  the  world  have  called  up 
Fitch  to  verify  the  central  fact.  He  couldn't  risk  it.  He  sched 
uled  the  broadside  for  the  second  morning  following.  ...  But  there 
was  lo !  He  had  promised.  Well,  he  was  to  meet  her  at  a  dinner 
party  at  the  Forbes's.  She  could  see  it  then,  if  she  hadn't  for 
gotten.  . . .  No ;  that,  too,  was  a  subterfuge  hope.  lo  never  forgot. 

As  if  to  assure  the  resumption  of  their  debate,  the  talk  of  the 
Forbes  dinner  table  turned  to  the  mayoralty  fight.  Shrewd  judges 
of  events  and  tendencies  were  there ;  Thatcher  Forbes,  himself, 
not  the  least  of  them ;  it  was  the  express  opinion  that  Laird 
stood  a  very  good  chance  of  victory. 


488  Success 

"Unless  they  can  definitely  pin  the  Wall  Street  label  on  him," 
suggested  some  one. 

"That  might  beat  him ;  it's  the  only  thing  that  could,"  another 
opined. 

Hugging  his  withering  phrase  to  his  heart,  Banneker  felt  a 
growing  exultation. 

"Nobody  but  The  Patriot  — "  began  Mrs.  Forbes  contemptu 
ously,  when  she  abruptly  recalled  who  was  at  her  table.  "The 
newspapers  are  doing  their  worst,  but  I  think  they  won't  maka 
people  believe  much  of  it,"  she  amended. 

"Is  Laird  really  the  Wall  Street  candidate?"  inquired  Esther 
Forbes. 

Farley  Welland,  lo's  cousin,  himself  an  amateur  politician, 
answered  her:  "He  is  or  he  isn't,  according  as  you  look  at  it. 
Masters  and  his  crowd  are  mildly  for  him,  because  they  haven't 
any  objection  to  a  decent,  straight  city  government,  at  present. 
Sometimes  they  have." 

"On  that  principle,  Horace  Vanney  must  have,"  remarked  Jim 
Maitland.  "He's  fighting  Laird,  tooth  and  nail,  and  certainly 
he  represents  one  phase  of  Wall  Street  activity." 

"My  revered  uncle,"  drawled  Herbert  Cressey,  "considers  that 
the  present  administration  is  too  tender  of  the  working-man  — • 
or,  rather,  working-woman  —  when  she  strikes.  Don't  let  'em 
strike ;  or,  if  they  do  strike,  have  the  police  bat  'em  on  the  head." 

"What's  this  administration  got  to  do  with  Vanney 's  mills?  I 
thought  they  were  in  Jersey,"  another  diner  asked. 

"So  they  are,  the  main  ones.  But  he's  backing  some  of  the 
local  clothing  manufacturers,  the  sweat-shop  lot.  They've  been 
having  strikes.  That  interferes  with  profits.  Uncle  wants  the 
good  old  days  of  the  night-stick  and  the  hurry-up  wagon 
back.  He's  even  willing  to  spend  a  little  money  on  the  good 
cause." 

lo,  seated  on  Banneker's  left,  turned  to  him.  "Is  that  true, 
Ban?" 

"I've  heard  rumors  to  that  effect,"  he  replied  evasively. 

"Won't  it  put  The  Patriot  in  a  queer  position,  to  be  making 
common  cause  with  an  enemy  of  labor?" 


Fulfillment  4S9 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  Horace  Vanney,  at  all,"  he  declared. 
"He's  just  an  incident." 

"When  are  you  going  to  write  your  Laird  editorial?" 

"All  written.  I've  got  a  proof  in  my  pocket." 

She  made  as  if  to  hold  out  her  hand ;  but  withdrew  it.  "After 
dinner,"  she  said.  "The  little  enclosed  porch  off  the  conserva 
tory." 

Amused  and  confirmatory  glances  followed  them  as  they  with 
drew  together.  But  there  was  no  ill-natured  commentary.  So 
habituated  was  their  own  special  set  to  the  status  between  them 
that  it  was  accepted  with  tolerance,  even  with  the  good-humored 
approval  with  which  human  nature  regards  a  logical  inter-at 
traction. 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  want  to  plunge  into  politics,  lo?" 
Banneker  asked,  looking  down  at  her  as  she  seated  herself  in  the 
cushioned  chaise  longue. 

Her  mouth  smiled  assent,  but  her  eyes  were  intent  and  serious. 
He  dropped  the  proof  into  her  lap,  bending  over  and  kissing  her 
lips  as  he  did  so.  For  a  moment  her  fingers  interlaced  over  his 
neck. 

"I'll  understand  it,"  she  breathed,  interpreting  into  his  caress 
a  quality  of  pleading. 

Before  she  had  read  halfway  down  the  column,  she  raised  to 
him  a  startled  face.  "Are  you  sure,  Ban?"  she  interrogated. 

"Read  the  rest,"  he  suggested. 

She  complied.  "What  a  terrible  power  little  things  have,"  she 
sighed.  "That  would  make  me  despise  Laird." 

"A  million  other  people  will  feel  the  same  way  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?  Is  it  to  be  published  so  soon?" 

"In  the  morning's  issue." 

"Ban;  is  it  true?  Did  he  say  that?" 

"  I  have  it  from  a  man  I've  known  ever  since  I  came  to  New 
York.  He's  reliable." 

"But  it's  so  unlike  Bob  Laird." 

"Why  is  it  unlike  him?"  he  challenged  with  a  tinge  of  im 
patience.  "Hasn't  he  been  playing  about  lately  with  the  Junior 
Masters?" 


490  Success 

"Do  you  happen  to  know,"  she  replied  quietly,  "that  Junior 
and  Bob  Laird  were  classmates  and  clubmates  at  college,  and 
that  they  probably  always  have  called  each  other  by  their  first 
names?" 

"No.  Have  you  ever  heard  them?"  Angry  regret  beset  him 
the  instant  the  question  had  passed  his  lips.  If  she  replied  in  the 
affirmative  — 

"No ;  I've  never  happened  to  hear  them,"  she  admitted ;  and 
he  breathed  more  freely. 

"Then  my  evidence  is  certainly  more  direct  than  yours,"  he 
pointed  out. 

"Ban ;  that  charge  once  made  public  is  going  to  be  unanswer 
able,  isn't  it  ?  Just  because  the  thing  itself  is  so  cheap  and  petty  ?" 

"Yes.  You've  got  the  true  journalistic  sense,  lo." 

"Then  there's  the  more  reason  why  you  shouldn't  print  it 
unless  you  know  it  to  be  true." 

"But  it  is  true."  Almost  he  had  persuaded  himself  that  it 
was ;  that  it  must  be. 

"The  Olneys  are  having  the  Junior  Masters  to  dine  this  even 
ing.  I  know  because  I  was  asked ;  but  of  course  I  wanted  to  be 
here,  where  you  are.  Let  me  call  Junior  on  the  'phone  and  ask 
him." 

Banneker  flushed.  "You  can't  do  that,  lo." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why,  it  isn't  the  sort  of  thing  that  one  can  very  well  do,"  he 
said  lamely. 

"Not  ask  Junior  if  he  and  Bob  Laird  are  old  chums  and  call 
each  other  by  their  first  names?" 

"How  silly  it  would  sound!"  He  tried  to  laugh  the  proposal 
away.  "  In  any  case,  it  wouldn't  be  conclusive.  Besides,  it's  too 
late  by  this  time." 

"Too  late?" 

"Yes.  The  forms  are  closed." 

"You  couldn't  change  it?" 

"Why,  I  suppose  I  could,  in  an  extreme  emergency.  But, 
dearest,  it's  all  right.  Why  be  so  difficult?" 

"It  isn't  playing  the  game,  Ban." 


Fulfillment  491 

"Indeed,  it  is.  It's  playing  the  game  as  Laird  has  elected  to 
play  it.  Did  he  make  inquiries  before  he  attacked  us  on  the 
Veridian  strike?" 

"That's  true,"  she  conceded. 

"And  my  evidence  for  this  is  direct.  You'll  have  to  trust  me 
and  my  professional  judgment,  lo." 

She  sighed,  but  accepted  this,  saying,  "If  he  is  that  kind  of  a 
snob  it  ought  to  be  published.. .  .Suppose  he  sues  for  libel?" 

"He'd  be  laughed  out  of  court.  Why,  what  is  there  libelous  in 
saying  that  a  man  claims  to  have  been  called  by  his  first  name  by 
another  man?"  Banneker  chuckled. 

"Well,  it  ought  to  be  libelous  if  it  isn't  true,"  asserted  lo 
warmly.  "  It  isn't  fair  or  decent  that  a  newspaper  can  hold  a  man 
up  as  a  boot-licker  and  toady,  if  he  isn't  one,  and  yet  not  be  held 
responsible  for  it." 

"Well,  dearest,  I  didn't  make  the  Hbel  laws.  They're  hard 
enough  as  it  is."  His  thought  turned  momentarily  to  Ely  Ives, 
the  journalistic  sandbag,  and  he  felt  a  momentary  qualm.  "I 
don't  pretend  to  like  everything  about  my  job.  One  of  these  days 
I'll  have  a  newspaper  of  my  own,  and  you  shall  censor  every 
word  that  goes  in  it." 

"Help!  Help!"  she  laughed.  "I  shouldn't  have  the  time  for 
anything  else;  not  even  for  being  in  love  with  the  proprietor. 
Ban,"  she  added  wistfully,  "does  it  cost  a  very  great  deal  to  start 
a  new  paper?" 

"Yes.  Or  to  buy  an  old  one." 

"I  have  money  of  my  own,  you  know,"  she  ventured. 

He  fondled  her  hand.  "That  isn't  even  a  temptation,"  he 
replied. 

But  it  was.  For  a  paper  of  his  own  was  farther  away  from  him 
than  it  had  ever  been.  That  morning  he  had  received  his  state 
ment  from  his  broker.  To  date  his  losses  on  Union  Thread  were 
close  to  ninety  thousand  dollars. 

Who  shall  measure  the  spreading  and  seeding  potentialities 
of  a  thistle-down  or  a  catchy  phrase  ?  Within  twenty-four  hours 
after  the  appearance  of  Banneker's  editorial,  the  apocryphal 
boast  of  Mayor  Laird  to  his  wife  had  become  current  political 


492  Success 

history.  Current?  Rampant,  rather.  Messenger  boys  greeted 
each  other  with  "  Dearie,  Mr.  Masters  calls  me  Bob."  Brokers 
on  'Change  shouted  across  a  slow  day's  bidding,  "What's  your 
cute  little  pet  name?  Mine's  Bobbie."  Huge  buttons  appeared 
with  miraculous  celerity  in  the  hands  of  the  street  venders  in 
scribed, 


Call  me  Bob  but  Vote  for  Marrineal 


Vainly  did  Judge  Enderby  come  out  with  a  statement  to  the 
press,  declaring  the  whole  matter  a  cheap  and  nasty  fabrication, 
and  challenging  The  Patriot  to  cite  its  authority.  The  damage 
already  done  was  irreparable.  Sighting  Banneker  at  luncheon  a 
few  days  later,  Horace  Vanney  went  so  far  as  to  cross  the  room 
to  greet  and  congratulate  him. 

"A  master-stroke,"  he  said,  pressing  Banneker's  hand  with 
his  soft  palm.  "We're  glad  to  have  you  with  us.  Won't  you  call 
me  up  and  lunch  with  me  soon?" 

At  The  Retreat,  after  polo,  that  Saturday,  the  senior  Masters 
met  Banneker  face  to  face  in  a  hallway,  and  held  him  up. 

"Politics  is  politics.  Eh?"  he  grunted. 

"It's  a  great  game,"  returned  the  journalist. 

"Think  up  that  '  call-me-Bob '  business  yourself?" 

"I  got  it  from  a  reliable  source." 

"Damn  lie,"  remarked  Poultney  Masters  equably.  "Did  the 
work,  though.  Banneker,  why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were 
in  the  market?" 

"In  the  stock-market?  What  has  that  — " 

"  You  know  what  market  I  mean,"  retorted  the  great  man  with 
unconcealed  contempt.  "  What  you  don't  know  is  yourown  game. 
Always  seek  the  highest  bidder  before  you  sell,  my  boy." 

"I'll  take  that  from  no  man—  "  began  Banneker  hotly. 

Immediately  he  was  sensible  of  a  phenomenon.  His  angry 
eyes,  lifted  to  Poultney  Masters 's  glistening  little  beads,  were 
unable  to  endure  the  vicious  amusement  which  he  read  therein. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  stared  down.  He  passed  on, 
followed  by  a  low  and  scornful  hoot. 


Fulfillment  493 


Meeting  Willis  Enderby  while  charge  and  counter-charge  still 
filled  the  air,  lo  put  the  direct  query  to  him : 

"Cousin  Billy,  what  is  the  truth  about  the  Laird-Masters 
story?" 

"Made  up  out  of  whole  cloth,"  responded  Enderby. 

"Who  made  it  up?" 

Comprehension  and  pity  were  in  his  intonation  as  he  replied : 
"Not  Banneker,  I  understand.  It  was  passed  on  to  him." 

"Then  you  don't  think  him  to  blame?"  she  cried  eagerly. 

"I  can't  exculpate  him  as  readily  as  that.  Such  a  story,  con 
sidering  its  inevitable  —  I  may  say  its  intended  —  consequences, 
should  never  have  been  published  without  the  fullest  investiga 
tion." 

"Suppose" — she  hesitated — "he  had  it  on  what  he  con 
sidered  good  authority?" 

"He  has  never  even  cited  his  authority." 

"Couldn't  it  have  been  confidential?"  she  pleaded. 

"  lo,  do  you  know  his  authority  ?  Has  he  told  you  ?  " 

"No." 

Enderby's  voice  was  very  gentle  as  he  put  his  next  question. 
"Do  you  trust  Banneker,  my  dear?" 

She  met  his  regard,  unflinchingly,  but  there  was  a  piteous 
quiver  about  the  lips  which  formed  the  answer.  "  I  have  trusted 
him.  Absolutely." 

"Ah ;  well !  I've  seen  too  much  good  and  bad  too  inextricably 
mingled  in  human  nature,  to  judge  on  part  information." 

Election  day  came  and  passed.  On  the  evening  of  it  the  streets 
were  ribald  with  crowds  gleefully  shrieking!  "Call  me  Dennis, 
wifie.  I'm  stung!"  Laird  had  been  badly  beaten,  running  far 
behind  Marrineal.  Halloran,  the  ring  candidate,  was  elected. 
Banneker  did  it. 

As  he  looked  back  on  the  incidents  of  the  campaign  and  its 
culminating  event  with  a  sense  of  self-doubt  poisoning  his 
triumph,  that  which  most  sickened  him  of  his  own  course  was  not 
the  overt  insult  from  the  financial  emperor,  but  the  soft-palmed 
gratulation  of  Horace  Vanney. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AMBITION  is  the  most  conservative  of  influences  upon  a  radical 
mind.  No  sooner  had  Tertius  Marrineal  formulated  his  political 
hopes  than  there  were  manifested  in  the  conduct  of  The  Patriot 
strange  symptoms  of  a  hankering  after  respectability.  Essen 
tially  Marrineal  was  not  respectable,  any  more  than  he  was  radi 
cal.  He  was  simply  and  singly  selfish.  But,  having  mapped  out 
for  himself  a  career  which  did  not  stop  short  of  a  stately  and  deep- 
porticoed  edifice  in  Washington's  Pennsylvania  Avenue  (for  his 
conception  of  the  potential  leverage  of  a  great  newspaper  in 
creased  with  The  Patriot's  circulation),  he  deemed  it  advisable 
to  moderate  some  of  the  more  blatant  features,  on  the  same 
principle  which  had  induced  him  to  reform  the  Veridian  lumber 
mill  abuses,  lest  they  be  brought  up  to  his  political  detriment 
later.  A  long-distance  thinker,  Tertius  Marrineal. 

Operating  through  invisible  channels  and  by  a  method  which 
neither  Banneker  nor  Edmonds  ever  succeeded  in  fathoming,  his 
influence  now  began  to  be  felt  for  the  better  tone  of  the  news 
columns.  They  became  less  glaringly  sensational.  Yet  the  qual 
ity  of  the  news  upon  which  the  paper  specialized  was  the  same ; 
it  was  the  handling  which  was  insensibly  altered.  That  this  was 
achieved  without  adversely  affecting  circulation  was  another 
proof,  added  to  those  already  accumulated,  of  Marrineal's  really 
eminent  journalistic  capacities.  The  change  was  the  less  obvious, 
because  The  Patriot's  competitors  in  the  Great  Three-Ringed 
Circus  of  Sensation  had  found  themselves  being  conducted, 
under  that  leadership,  farther  along  the  primrose  path  of  stimu 
lation  and  salaciousness  than  they  had  realized,  and  had  already 
modified  their  policies. 

Even  under  the  new  policy,  however,  The  Patriot  would 
hardly  have  proven,  upon  careful  analysis,  more  decent  or  self- 
respecting.  But  it  was  less  obvious;  cleverer  in  avoiding  the 
openly  offensive.  Capron  had  been  curbed  in  his  pictorial  orgies. 
The  copy-readers  had  been  supplied  with  a  list  of  words  and 


Fulfillment  495 


terms  tabooed  from  the  captions.  But  the  influence  of  Severance 
was  still  potent  in  the  make-up  of  the  news.  While  Banneker 
was  relieved  at  the  change,  he  suspected  its  impermanency  should 
it  prove  unsuccessful.  To  neither  his  chief  editorial  writer  nor 
Russell  Edmonds  had  the  proprietor  so  much  as  hinted  at  the 
modification  of  scheme.  His  silence  to  these  two  was  part  of  his 
developing  policy  of  separating  more  widely  the  different  de 
partments  of  the  paper  in  order  that  he  might  be  the  more 
quietly  and  directly  authoritative  over  all. 

The  three  men  were  lunching  late  at  Delmonico's,  and  talking 
politics,  when  Edmonds  leaned  forward  in  his  seat  to  look  toward 
the  entrance. 

"There's  Severance,"  said  he.  " What's  the  matter  with 
him?" 

The  professional  infuser  of  excitements  approached  walking 
carefully  among  the  tables.  His  eyes  burned  in  a  white  face. 

"  On  one  of  his  sprees,"  diagnosed  Banneker.  "  Oh,  Severance ! 
Sit  down  here." 

"I  beg  your  p-p-pardon."  Severance  spoke  with  marked  de 
liberation  and  delicacy,  but  with  a  faint  stammer.  "  These  not 
b-being  office  hours,  I  have  not  the  p-pleasure  of  your  acquaint 
ance." 

Marrineal  smiled. 

"The  p-pale  rictus  of  the  damned,"  observed  Severance.  "As 
one  damned  soul  to  another,  I  c-conf ess  a  longing  for  companion 
ship  of  m-my  own  sort.  Therefore  I  accept  your  invitation. 
Waiter,  a  Scotch  h-highball." 

"We  were  talking  of-  '  began  Banneker,  when  the  new 
comer  broke  in : 

"Talk  of  m-me.  Of  me  and  m-my  work.  I  exult  in  my  w-work. 
L-like  Mr.  Whitman,  I  celebrate  myself.  I  p-point  with  pride. 
What  think  you,  gentlemen,  of  to-day's  paper  in  honor  of  which 
I  have  t- taken  my  few  drinks?" 

"If  you  mean  the  Territon  story,"  growled  Edmonds,  "it's 
rotten."  , 

"Precisely.  I  thank  you  for  your  g-golden  opinion.  Rotten. 
Exactly  as  intended." 


496  Success 

"  Put  a  woman's  good  name  on  trial  and  sentence  it  on  hearsay 
without  appeal  or  recourse." 

"  There  is  always  the  danger  of  going  too  far  along  those 
lines,"  pointed  out  Marrineal  judicially. 

"Pardon  me,  all-wise  Proprietor.  The  d-danger  lies  in  not 
going  far  enough.  The  frightful  p-peril  of  being  found  dull." 

"The  Territon  story  assays  too  thin  in  facts,  as  we've  put  it 
out.  If  Mrs.  Territon  doesn't  leave  her  husband  now  for  Mc- 
Laurin,"  opined  Marrineal,  "we  are  in  a  difficult  position.  I 
happen  to  know  her  and  I  very  much  doubt  — ' 

"Doubt  not  at  all,  d-doubting  Tertius.  The  very  fact  01  our 
publishing  the  story  will  force  her  hand.  It's  an  achievement, 
that  story.  No  other  p-paper  has  a  line  of  it." 

"Not  more  than  one  other  would  touch  it,  in  its  present  form," 
said  Banneker.  "It's  too  raw." 

"The  more  virtue  to  us.  I  r-regard  that  story  as  an  inspira 
tion.  Nobody  could  have  brought  it  off  b-but  me.  'A  god,  a  god 
their  Severance  ruled/"  punned  the  owner  of  the  name. 

"Beelzebub,  god  of  filth  and  maggots,"  snarled  Edmonds. 

"Bacchus,  god  of  all  true  inspiration!"  cried  Severance. 
"Waiter,  slave  of  B-Bacchus,  where  is  my  Scotch?" 

"Severance,  you're  going  too  far  along  your  chosen  line,"  de 
clared  Banneker  bluntly. 

"Yes;  we  must  tone  down  a  little,    agreed  Marrineal. 

The  sensationalist  lifted  calmly  luminous  eyes  to  his  chief. 
"Why?"  he  queried  softly.  "Are  you  meditating  a  change? 
Does  the  journalistic  1-lady  of  easy  virtue  begin  to  yearn  f-for  the 
paths  of  respectability?" 

"Steady,  Severance,"  warned  Edmonds. 

At  the  touch  of  the  curb  the  other  flamed  into  still,  white 
wrath.  "If  you're  going  to  be  a  whore,"  he  said  deliberately, 
"play  the  whore's  game.  I'm  one  and  I  know  it.  Banneker's 
one,  but  hasn't  the  courage  to  face  it.  You're  one,  Edmonds  — 
no,  you're  not ;  not  even  that.  You're  the  hallboy  that  f-fetches 
the  drinks  — " 

Marrineal  had  risen.  Severance  turned  upon  him. 

"I  salute  you,  Madam  of  our  high-class  establishment.  When 


Fulfillment  497 

you  take  your  p-price,  you  at  east  look  the  business  in  the  face. 
No  illusions  for  M-Madam  Marrineal. .  .  .  By  the  w-way,  I  resign 
from  the  house/' 

"Are  you  coming,  Mr.  Edmonds?"  said  Marrineal.  "You'll 
sign  the  check  for  me,  will  you,  Mr.  Banneker?" 

Left  alone  with  the  disciple  of  Bacchus  and  Beelzebub,  the 
editor  said : 

"  Better  get  home,  severance.  Come  in  to-morrow,  will  you  ?  " 

"No.  I'm  q-quite  in  earnest  about  resigning.  No  further  use 
for  the  damned  j-job  now." 

"  I  never  could  see  why  you  had  any  use  for  it  in  the  first  place. 
Was  it  money?" 

"Of  course." 

"Oh,  I  see." 

"You  d-don't  see  at  all.  I  wanted  the  m-money  for  a  purpose. 
The  purpose  was  a  woman.  I  w-wanted  to  keep  pace  with  her 
and  her  s-set.  It  was  the  set  to  which  I  rightly  belonged,  but  I'd 
dropped  out.  I  thought  I  p-pref erred  drink.  I  didn't  after  she 
got  hold  of  me.  I  d-don't  know  why  the  d-devil  I'm  telling  you 
all  this." 

"I'm  sorry,  Severance,"  said  Banneker  honestly. 

The  other  raised  his  glass.  "  Here's  to  her,"  he  said.  He  drank. 
"I  wish  her  nothing  w-worse  than  she's  got.  Her  name  is — " 

"Wait  a  moment,  Severance,"  cut  in  Banneker  sharply. 
"Don't  say  anything  that  you'll  regret.  Naming  of  names  — ' 

"Oh,  there's  no  harm  in  this,  n-now,"  said  Severance  wearily. 
"Hers  is  smeared  in  filth  all  over  our  third  page.  It  is  Maud 
Territon.  What  do  you  think  of  P-Patriotic  journalism,  anyway, 
Banneker?" 


CHAPTER  XV 

WITH  the  accession  to  political  control  of  Halloran  and  the  old 
ring,  the  influence  of  Horace  Vanney  and  those  whom  he  repre 
sented,  became  as  potent  as  it  was  secret.  "Salutary  measures" 
had  been  adopted  toward  the  garment-workers;  a  "firm  hand" 
on  the  part  of  the  police  had  succeeded  in  holding  down  the 
strike  through  the  fall  and  winter ;  but  in  the  early  spring  it  was 
revived  and  spread  throughout  the  city,  even  to  the  doors  of  the 
shopping  district.  In  another  sense  than  the  geographical  it  was 
nearing  the  great  department  stores,  for  quiet  efforts  were  being 
made  by  some  of  the  strike  leaders  to  organize  and  unionize  the 
underpaid  salesmen  and  saleswomen  of  the  shops.  Inevitably 
this  drew  into  active  hostility  to  the  strikers  the  whole  power  of 
the  stores  with  their  immense  advertising  influence. 

Very  little  news  of  the  strike  got  into  the  papers  except  where 
some  clash  with  the  police  was  of  too  great  magnitude  to  be  ig 
nored  ;  then  the  trend  of  the  articles  was  generally  hostile  to  the 
strikers.  The  Sphere  published  the  facts  briefly,  as  a  matter  of 
journalistic  principle ;  The  Ledger  published  them  with  violent 
bias,  as  a  matter  of  journalistic  habit ;  the  other  papers,  includ 
ing  The  Patriot,  suppressed  or  minimized  to  as  great  an  extent 
as  they  deemed  feasible. 

That  the  troubles  of  some  thousands  of  sweated  wage-earners, 
employed  upon  classes  of  machine-made  clothing  which  would 
never  come  within  the  ken  of  the  delicately  clad  women  of  her 
world,  could  in  any  manner  affect  lo  Eyre,  was  most  improbable. 
But  the  minor  fate  who  manipulates  improbabilities  elected  that 
she  should  be  in  a  downtown  store  at  the  moment  when  a  squad 
of  mounted  police  charged  a  crowd  of  girl-strikers.  Hearing  the 
scream  of  panic,  she  ran  out,  saw  ignorant,  wild-eyed  girls,  hardly 
more  than  children,  beaten  down,  trampled,  hurried  hither  and 
thither,  seized  upon  and  thrown  into  patrol  wagons,  and  when 
she  reached  her  car,  sick  and  furious,  found  an  eighteen-year-old 
Lithuanian  blonde  flopping  against  the  rear  fender  in  a  dead 


Fulfillment  499 

faint.  Strong  as  a  young  panther,  lo  picked  up  the  derelict  in 
her  arms,  hoisted  her  into  the  tonneau,  and  bade  the  disgusted 
chauffeur,  ''Home."  What  she  heard  from  the  revived  girl,  in 
the  talk  which  followed,  sent  her,  hot-hearted,  to  the  police 
court  where  the  arrests  would  be  brought  up  for  primary  judg 
ment. 

The  first  person  that  she  met  there  was  Willis  Enderby. 

"If  you're  on  this  strike  case,  Cousin  Billy,"  she  said,  "I'm 
against  you,  and  I'm  ashamed  of  you." 

"You  probably  aren't  the  former,  and  you  needn't  be  the 
latter,"  he  replied. 

"Aren't  you  Mr.  Vanney's  lawyer?  And  isn't  he  interested  in 
the  strike?" 

"Not  openly.  It  happens  that  I'm  here  for  the  strikers." 

lo  stared,  incredulous.  "For  the  strikers?  You  mean  that 
they've  retained  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  no.  I'm  really  here  in  my  capacity  as  President  of  the 
Law  Enforcement  Society ;  to  see  that  these  women  get  the  full 
protection  of  the  law,  to  which  they  are  entitled.  There  is  reason 
to  believe  that  they  haven't  had  it.  And  you?" 

lo  told  him. 

"Are  you  willing  to  go  on  the  stand?" 

"Certainly ;  if  it  will  do  any  good." 

"  Not  much,  so  far  as  the  case  goes.  But  it  will  force  it  into  the 
newspapers.  'Society  Leader  Takes  Part  of  Working-Girls,'  and 
so-on.  The  publicity  will  be  useful." 

The  magistrate  on  the  bench  was  lenient ;  dismissed  most  of 
the  prisoners  with  a  warning  against  picketing ;  fined  a  few ;  sent 
two  to  jail.  He  seemed  surprised  and  not  a  little  impressed  by 
the  distinguished  Mrs.  Delavan  Eyre's  appearance  in  the  pro 
ceedings,  and  sent  word  out  to  the  reporters'  room,  thereby 
breaking  up  a  game  of  pinochle  at  its  point  of  highest  interest. 
There  was  a  man  there  from  The  Patriot. 

With  eager  expectation  lo,  back  in  her  Philadelphia  apart 
ment,  sent  out  for  a  copy  of  the  New  York  Patriot.  Greatly  to 
her  disgust  she  found  herself  headlined,  half-toned,  described; 
but  with  very  little  about  the  occasion  of  her  testimony,  a  mere 


500  Success 

mention  of  the  strike  and  nothing  whatsoever  regarding  the  po 
lice  brutalities  which  had  so  stirred  her  wrath.  lo  discovered 
that  she  had  lost  her  taste  for  publicity,  in  a  greater  interest. 
Her  first  thought  was  to  write  Banneker  indignantly ;  her  second 
to  ask  explanations  when  he  called  her  on  the  'phone  as  he  now 
did  every  noon ;  her  third  to  let  the  matter  stand  until  she  went 
to  New  York  and  saw  him.  On  her  arrival,  several  days  later, 
she  went  direct  to  his  office.  Banneker's  chief  interest,  next  to  his 
ever-thrilling  delight  in  seeing  her,  was  in  the  part  played  by 
Willis  Enderby. 

"What  is  he  doing  in  that  galley?"  he  wondered. 

To  her  explanation  he  shook  his  head.  Something  more  than 
that,  he  was  sure.  Asking  lo's  permission  he  sent  for  Russell 
Edmonds. 

" Isn't  this  a  new  role  for  Enderby?"  he  asked. 

"Not  at  all.  He's  been  doing  this  sort  of  thing  always.  Usu 
ally  on  the  quiet." 

"The  fact  that  this  is  far  from  being  on  the  quiet  suggests 
politics,  doesn't  it?  Making  up  to  the  labor  vote?" 

"What  on  earth  should  Cousin  Billy  care  for  the  labor  vote?" 
demanded  lo.  "Mr.  Laird  is  dead  politically,  isn't  he?"  4 

"But  Judge  Enderby  isn't.  Mr.  Edmonds  will  tell  you  that 
much." 

"True  enough.  Enderby  is  a  man  to  be  reckoned  with.  Par 
ticularly  if  —  "  Edmonds  paused,  hesitant. 

"If  —  "  prompted  Banneker.  "Fire  ahead,  Pop." 

"  If  Marrineal  should  declare  in  on  the  race  for  the  governor 
ship,  next  fall." 

"Without  any  state  organization?  Is  that  probable?"  asked 
Banneker. 

"Only  in  case  he  should  make  a  combination  with  the  old  ring 
crowd,  who  are,  naturally,  grateful  for  his  aid  in  putting  over 
Halloran  for  them.  It's  quite  within  the  possibilities." 

"After  the  way  The  Patriot  and  Mr.  Marrineal  himself  have 
flayed  the  ring  ?  "  exclaimed  lo.  "  It  isn't  possible.  How  could  he 
so  go  back  on  himself  ?  " 

Edmonds  turned  his  fine  and  serious  smile  upon  her.  "Mr. 


Fulfillment  501 


Man-meal's  guiding  principle  of  politics  and  journalism  is  that 
the  public  never  remembers.  If  he  persuades  the  ring  to  nomi 
nate  him,  Enderby  is  the  logical  candidate  against  him.  In  my 
belief  he's  the  only  man  who  could  beat  him." 

"Do  you  really  think,  Mr.  Edmonds,  that  Judge  Enderby's 
help  to  the  arrested  women  is  a  political  move?" 

"That's  the  way  it  would  be  interpreted  by  all  the  politicians. 
Personally,  I  don't  believe  it." 

"His  sympathies,  professional  and  personal,  are  naturally  on 
the  other  side,"  pointed  out  Banneker. 

"But  not  yours,  surely  Ban!"  cried  lo.  "Yours  ought  to  be 
with  them.  If  you  could  have  seen  them  as  I  did,  helpless  and 
panic-stricken,  with  the  horses  pressing  in  on  them  — 

"Of  course  I'm  with  them,"  warmly  retorted  Banneker.  "If  I 
controlled  the  news  columns  of  the  paper,  I'd  make  another 
Sippiac  Mills  story  of  this."  No  sooner  had  he  said  it  than  he 
foresaw  to  what  reply  he  had  inevitably  laid  himself  open.  It 
came  from  lo's  lips. 

"You  control  the  editorial  column,  Ban." 

"It's  a  subject  to  be  handled  in  the  news,  not  the  editorials," 
he  said  hastily. 

The  silence  that  fell  was  presently  relieved  by  Edmonds.  "It's 
also  being  handled  in  the  advertising  columns.  Have  you  seen 
the  series  of  announcements  by  the  Garment  Manufacturers' 
Association  ?  There  are  four  of  'em  now  in  proof." 

"No.  I  haven't  seen  them,"  answered  Banneker. 

"They're  able.  But  on  the  whole  they  aren't  as  able  as  the 
strikers'  declaration  in  rebuttal,  offered  us  to-day,  one-third  of  a 
page  at  regular  advertising  rates,  same  as  the  manufacturers'." 

"Enderby?"  queried  Banneker  quickly. 

"I  seem  to  detect  his  fine  legal  hand  in  it." 

Banneker's  face  became  moody.  "I  suppose  Haring  refused  to 
publish  it." 

"No.  Haring's  for  taking  it." 

"How  is  that?"  said  the  editor,  astonished.  "I  thought 
Haring—" 

"You  think  of  Haring  as  if  Haring  thought  as  you  and  I  think. 


502  Success 

That  isn't  fair,"  declared  Edmonds.  "Haring's  got  a  business 
mind,  straight  within  its  limitations.  He  accepts  this  strike  stuff 
just  as  he  accepts  blue-sky  mine  fakes  and  cancer  cures  in  which 
he  has  no  belief,  because  he  considers  that  a  newspaper  is  justified 
in  taking  any  ad.  that  is  offered  —  and  let  the  reader  beware. 
Besides,  it  goes  against  his  grain  to  turn  down  real  money." 

"Will  it  appear  in  to-morrow's  paper?"  questioned  lo. 

"Probably,  if  it  appears  at  all." 

"Why  the  'if'?"  said  Banneker.  "Since  Haring  has  passed 
it—" 

"There  is  also  Marrineal." 

"Haring  sent  it  to  him ?" 

"Not  at  all.  The  useful  and  ubiquitous  Ives,  snooping  as 
usual,  came  upon  it.  Hence  it  is  now  in  Marrineal's  hands. 
Likely  to  remain  there,  I  should  think." 

"Mr.  Marrineal  won't  let  it  be  published ? "  asked  lo. 

"That's  my  guess,"  returned  the  veteran. 

"And  mine,"  added  Banneker. 

He  felt  her  eyes  of  mute  appeal  fixed  on  him  and  read  her 
meaning. 

"All  right,  lo,"  he  promised  quietly.  "If  Mr.  Marrineal  won't 
print  it  in  advertising,  I'll  print  it  as  editorial." 

"When?"  lo  and  Edmonds  spoke  in  one  breath. 

"Day  after  to-morrow." 

"That's  war,"  said  Edmonds. 

"In  a  good  cause,"  declared  lo  proudly. 

"The  cause  of  the  independence  of  Errol  Banneker,"  said  the 
veteran.  "It  was  bound  to  come.  Go  in  and  win,  son.  I'll  get 
you  a  proof  of  the  ad." 

"Ban !"  said  lo  with  brightened  regard. 

"Well?" 

"Will  you  put  something  at  the  head  of  your  column  for  me. 
if  that  editorial  appears?" 

"What?  Wait!  I  know.  The  quotation  from  the  Areopagit- 
ica.  Is  that  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Fine'  I'll  do  it." 


Fulfillment  503 


On  the  following  morning  The  Patriot  appeared  as  usual.  The 
first  of  the  Manufacturers'  Association  arguments  to  the  public 
was  conspicuously  displayed.  Of  the  strikers'  reply  —  not  a 
syllable.  Banneker  went  to  Haring's  office ;  found  the  business 
manager  gloomy,  but  resigned. 

"Mr.  Marrineal  turned  it  down.  He's  got  the  right.  That's  all 
there  is  to  it,"  was  his  version. 

"Not  quite,"  remarked  Banneker,  and  went  home  to  prove  it. 

Into  the  editorial  which  was  to  constitute  the  declaration  of 
Errol  Banneker's  independence  went  much  thinking,  and  little 
writing.  The  pronunciamento  of  the  strikers,  prefaced  by  a  few 
words  of  explanation,  and  followed  by  some  ringing  sentences  as 
to  the  universal  right  to  a  fair  field,  was  enough.  At  the  top  of 
the  column  the  words  of  Milton,  in  small,  bold  print.  Across  the 
completed  copy  he  wrote  "Thursday.  Must." 

Never  had  Banneker  felt  in  finer  fettle  for  war  than  when  he 
awoke  that  Thursday  morning.  Contrary  to  his  usual  custom, 
he  did  not  even  look  at  the  copy  of  The  Patriot  brought  to  his 
breakfast  table ;  he  wanted  to  have  that  editorial  fresh  to  eye  and 
mind  when  Marrineal  called  him  to  account  for  it.  For  this  was 
a  challenge  which  Marrineal  could  not  ignore.  He  breakfasted 
with  a  copy  of  "The  Undying  Voices"  propped  behind  his  coffee 
cup,  refreshing  himself  before  battle  with  the  delights  of  allusive 
memory,  bringing  back  the  days  when  he  and  lo  had  read  and 
discovered  together.  It  was  noon  when  he  reached  the  office. 

From  the  boy  at  the  entrance  he  learned  that  Mr.  Marrinea*- 
had  come  in.  Doubtless  he  would  find  a  summons  on  his  desk. 
None  was  there.  Perhaps  Marrineal  would  come  to  him.  He 
waited.  Nothing.  Taking  up  the  routine  of  the  day,  he  turned 
to  his  proofs,  with  a  view  to  laying  out  his  schedule. 

The  top  one  was  his  editorial  on  the  strikers'  cause. 

Across  it  was  blue-penciled  the  word  "Killed." 

Banneker  snatched  up  the  morning's  issue.  The  editorial  was 
not  there.  In  its  place  he  read,  from  the  top  of  the  column : 
"And  though  all  the  winds  of  doctrine  blow" —  and  so  on,  to  the 
close  of  Milton's  proud  challenge,  followed  by : 

"Would  You  Let  Your  Baby  Drink  Carbolic?" 


504  Success 

For  the  strike  editorial  had  been  substituted  one  of  Banneker's 
typical  " mo ther-f etchers,"  as  he  termed  them,  very  useful  in 
their  way,  and  highly  approved  by  the  local  health  authorities. 
This  one  was  on  the  subject  of  pure  milk.  Its  association  with 
the  excerpt  from  the  Areopagitica  (which,  having  been  set  for  a 
standing  head,  was  not  cut  out  by  the  " Killed")  set  the  final 
touch  of  irony  upon  the  matter.  Even  in  his  fury  Banneker 
laughed. 

He  next  considered  the  handwriting  of  the  blue-penciled 
monosyllable.  It  was  not  Marrineal's  blunt,  backhand  script. 
Whose  was  it  ?  Haring's  ?  Trailing  the  proof  in  his  hand  he  went 
to  the  business  manager's  room. 

"Did  you  kill  this?" 

"Yes."  Haring  got  to  his  feet,  white  and  shaking.  "For 
God's  sake,  Mr.  Banneker  — " 

"I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you  —  yet.  By  what  right  did  you  do 
it?" 

"Orders." 

"Marrineal's?" 

"Yes." 

With  no  further  word,  Banneker  strode  to  the  owner's  office, 
pushed  open  the  door,  and  entered.  Marrineal  looked  up, 
slightly  frowning. 

"Did  you  kill  this  editorial?" 

Marrineal's  frown  changed  to  a  smile.  "Sit  down,  Mr. 
Banneker." 

"Marrineal,  did  you  kill  my  editorial?" 

"Isn't  your  tone  a  trifle  peremptory,  for  an  employee?" 

"It  won't  take  more  than  five  seconds  for  me  to  cease  to  be 
an  employee,"  said  Banneker  grimly. 

"Ah?  I  trust  you're  not  thinking  of  resigning.  By  the  way, 
some  reporter  called  on  me  last  week  to  confirm  a  rumor  that  you 
were  about  to  resign.  Let  me  see ;  what  paper  ?  Ah ;  yes ;  it 
wasn't  a  newspaper,  at  least,  not  exactly.  The  Searchlight.  I 
told  her  —  it  happened  to  be  a  woman  —  that  the  story  was 
quite  absurd." 

Something  in  the  nature  of  a  cold  trickle  seemed  to  be  flow- 


Fulfillment 505 

ing  between  Banneker's  brain  and  his  tongue.  He  said  with 
effort, 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  answer  my  question?" 

"  Certainly.  Mr.  Banneker,  that  was  an  ill-advised  editorial. 
Or,  rather,  an  ill-timed  one.  I  didn't  wish  it  published  until  we 
had  time  to  talk  it  over." 

"We  could  have  talked  it  over  yesterday." 

"But  I  understood  that  you  were  busy  with  callers  yesterday. 
That  charming  Mrs.  Eyre,  who,  by  the  way,  is  interested  in  the 
strikers,  isn't  she  ?  Or  was  it  the  day  before  yesterday  that  she 
was  here?" 

The  Searchlight!  And  now  lo  Eyre!  No  doubt  of  what 
Marrineal  meant.  The  cold  trickle  had  passed  down  Banneker's 
spine,  and  settled  at  his  knees  making  them  quite  unreliable. 
Inexplicably  it  still  remained  to  paralyze  his  tongue. 

"We're  reasonable  men,  you  and  I,  Mr.  Banneker,"  pursued 
Marrineal  in  his  quiet,  detached  tones.  "This  is  the  first  time  I 
have  ever  interfered.  You  must  do  me  the  justice  to  admit  that. 
Probably  it  will  be  the  last.  But  in  this  case  it  was  really  neces 
sary.  Shall  we  talk  it  over  later?" 

"Yes,"  said  Banneker  listlessly. 

In  the  hallway  he  ran  into  somebody,  who  cursed  him,  and 
then  said,  oh,  he  hadn't  noticed  who  it  was;  Pop  Edmonds. 
Edmonds  disappeared  into  Marrineal's  office.  Banneker  re 
gained  his  desk  and  sat  staring  at  the  killed  proof.  He  thought 
vaguely  that  he  could  appreciate  the  sensation  of  a  man  caught 

by  an  octopus.  Yet  Marrineal  didn't  look  like  an  octopus 

What  did  he  look  like?  What  was  that  subtle  resemblance 
which  had  eluded  him  in  the  first  days  of  their  acquaint 
anceship?  That  emanation  of  chill  quietude;  those  stagnant 
eyes? 

He  had  it  now !  It  dated  back  to  his  boyhood  days.  A  crawl 
ing  terror  which,  having  escaped  from  a  menagerie,  had  taken 
refuge  in  a  pool,  and  there  fixed  its  grip  upon  an  unfortunate 
calf,  and  dragged  —  dragged  —  dragged  the  shrieking  creature, 
until  it  went  under.  A  crocodile. 

His  reverie  was  broken  by  the  irruption  of  Russell  Edmonds. 


506  Success 


An  inch  of  the  stem  of  the  veteran's  dainty  little  pipe  was  clenched 
firmly  between  his  teeth ;  but  there  was  no  bowl. 

"Where's  the  rest  of  your  pipe?"  asked  Banneker,  stupefied 
by  this  phenomenon, 

"I've  resigned,"  said  Edmonds. 

"  God !  I  wish  I  could,"  muttered  Banneker. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

EXPLANATIONS  were  now  due  to  two  people,  lo  and  Willis 
Enderby.  As  to  lo,  Banneker  felt  an  inner  conviction  of  strength. 
Hopeless  though  he  was  of  making  his  course  appear  in  any  other 
light  than  that  of  surrender,  nevertheless  he  could  tell  himself 
that  it  was  really  done  for  her,  to  protect  her  name.  But  he 
could  not  tell  her  this.  He  knew  too  well  what  the  answer  of  that 
high  and  proud  spirit  of  hers  would  be ;  that  if  their  anomalous 
relationship  was  hampering  his  freedom,  dividing  his  conscience, 
the  only  course  of  honor  was  for  them  to  stop  seeing  each  other 
at  no  matter  what  cost  of  suffering ;  let  Banneker  resign,  if  that 
were  his  rightful  course,  and  tell  The  Searchlight  to  do  its  worst. 
Yes ;  such  would  be  lo's  idea  of  playing  the  game.  He  could  not 
force  it.  He  must  argue  with  her,  if  at  all,  on  the  plea  of  expedi 
ency.  And  to  her  forthright  and  uncompromising  fearlessness, 
expediency  was  in  itself  the  poorest  of  expedients.  At  the  last, 
there  was  her  love  for  him  to  appeal  to.  But  would  lo  love  where 
she  could  not  trust?. .  .He  turned  from  that  thought. 

As  an  alternative  subject  for  consideration,  Willis  Enderby 
was  hardly  more  assuring  and  even  more  perplexing.  True, 
Banneker  owed  no  explanation  to  him ;  but  for  his  own  satisfac 
tion  of  mind  he  must  have  it  out  with  the  lawyer.  He  had  a 
profound  admiration  for  Enderby  and  knew  that  this  was  in  a 
measure  reciprocated  by  a  patent  and  almost  wistful  liking, 
curious  in  a  person  as  reserved  as  Enderby.  He  cherished  a 
vague  impression  that  somehow  Enderby  would  understand. 
Or,  at  least,  that  he  would  want  to  understand.  Consequently 
he  was  not  surprised  when  the  lawyer  called  him  up  and  asked 
him  to  come  that  evening  to  the  Enderby  house.  He  went  at 
once  to  the  point. 

"Banneker,  do  you  know  anything  of  an  advertisement  by  the 
striking  garment-workers,  which  The  Patriot  first  accepted  and 
afterward  refused  to  print?" 

"Yes," 


508  Success 


"Are  you  at  liberty  to  tell  me  why?" 

"In  confidence." 

"That  is  implied." 

"Mr.  Marrineal  ordered  it  killed." 

"  Ah  !  It  was  Marrineal  himself.  The  advocate  of  the  Common 
People !  The  friend  of  Labor ! " 

"Admirable  campaign  material,"  observed  Banneker  com 
posedly,  "if  it  were  possible  to  use  it." 

"Which,  of  course,  it  isn't;  being  confidential,"  Enderby 
capped  the  thought.  "I  hear  that  Russell  Edmonds  has  resigned." 

"That  is  true." 

"  In  consequence  of  the  rejected  advertisement  ?  " 

Banneker  sat  silent  so  long  that  his  host  began:  "Perhaps  I 
shouldn't  have  asked  that  — 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  exactly  what  occurred,"  said  Banneker 
quietly,  and  outlined  the  episode  of  the  editorial,  suppressing, 
however.  Marrineal's  covert  threat  as  to  lo  and  The  Searchlight. 
"And  /  haven't  resigned.  So  you  see  what  manner  of  man  I 
am,"  he  concluded  defiantly. 

"You  mean  a  coward?  I  don't  think  it." 

"I  wish  I  were  sure  !"  burst  out  Banneker. 

"Ah?  That's  hard,  when  the  soul  doesn't  know  itself.. .  .Is  it 
money  ?  "  The  crisp,  clear  voice  had  softened  to  a  great  kindli 
ness.  "Are  you  in  debt,  my  boy?" 

"No.  Yes;  I  am.  I'd  forgotten.  That  doesn't  matter." 

"Apparently  not."  The  lawyer's  heavy  brows  went  up. 
"More  serious  than  money,"  he  commented. 

Banneker  recognized  the  light  of  suspicion,  comprehension, 
confirmation  in  the  keen  and  fine  visage  turned  upon  him. 
Enderby  continued : 

"Well,  there  are  matters  that  can  be  talked  of  and  other 
matters  that  can't  be  talked  of.  But  if  you  ever  feel  that  you 
want  the  advice  of  a  man  who  has  seen  human  nature  on  a  good 
many  sides,  and  has  learned  not  to  judge  too  harshly  of  it,  come 
to  me.  The  only  counsel  I  ever  give  gratis  to  those  who  can  pay 
for  it" — he  smiled  faintly  —  "is  the  kind  that  may  be  too 
valuable  to  sell." 


Fulfillment  509 


" But  I'd  like  to  know,"  said  Banneker  slowly,  "why  you  don't 
think  me  a  yellow  dog  for  not  resigning." 

"Because,  in  your  heart  you  don't  think  yourself  one.  Speak 
ing  of  that  interesting  species,  I  suppose  you  know  that  your 
principal  is  working  for  the  governorship." 

"  Will  he  get  the  nomination  ?  " 

"Quite  possibly.  Unless  I  can  beat  him  for  it.  I'll  tell  you 
privately  I  may  be  the  opposing  candidate.  Not  that  the  party 
loves  me  any  too  much;  but  I'm  at  least  respectable,  fairly 
strong  up-State,  and  they'll  take  what  they  have  to  in  order  to 
beat  Marrineal,  who  is  forcing  himself  down  their  throats." 

"A  pleasant  prospect  for  me,"  gloomed  Banneker.  "I'll  have 
to  fight  you." 

"  Go  ahead  and  fight,"  returned  the  other  heartily.  "It  won't 
be  the  first  time." 

"At  least,  I  want  you  to  know  that  it'll  be  fair  fight." 

"  No '  Junior-called-me-Bob '  trick  this  time  ?  "  smiled  Enderby. 

Banneker  flushed  and  winced.  "No,"  he  answered.  "Next 
time  I'll  be  sure  of  my  facts.  Good-night  and  good  luck.  I  hope 
you  beat  us." 

As  he  turned  the  corner  into  Fifth  Avenue  a  thought  struck 
him.  He  made  the  round  of  the  block,  came  up  the  side  of  the 
street  opposite,  and  met  a  stroller  having  all  the  ear-marks  of  the 
private  detective.  To  think  of  a  man  of  Judge  Enderby's  char 
acter  being  continuously  "spotted"  for  the  mean  design  of  an 
Ely  Ives  filled  Banneker  with  a  sick  fury.  His  first  thought  was 
to  return  and  tell  Enderby.  But  to  what  purpose?  After  all, 
what  possible  harm  could  Ives's  plotting  and  sneaking  do  to  a 
man  of  the  lawyer's  rectitude?  Banneker  returned  to  The  House 
With  Three  Eyes  and  his  unceasing  work. 

The  interview  with  Enderby  had  lightened  his  spirit.  The 
older  man's  candor,  his  tolerance,  his  clear  charity  of  judgment, 
his  sympathetic  comprehension  were  soothing  and  reassuring. 
But  there  was  another  trouble  yet  to  be  faced.  It  was  three  days 
since  the  editorial  appeared  and  he  had  heard  no  word  from  lo. 
Each  noon  when  he  called  on  the  long-distance  'phone,  she  had 
been  out,  an  unprecedented  change  from  her  eager  waiting  to 


510  Success 

hear  the  daily  voice  on  the  wire.  Should  he  write?  No;  it  was 
too  difficult  and  dangerous  for  that.  He  must  talk  it  out  with  her, 
face  to  face,  when  the  time  came. 

Meantime  there  was  Russell  Edmonds.  He  found  the  veteran 
cleaning  out  his  desk  preparatory  to  departure. 

"You  can't  know  how  it  hurts  to  see  you  go,  Pop,"  he  said 
sadly.  "What's  your  next  step?" 

"The  Sphere.  They  want  me  to  do  a  special  series,  out  around 
the  country." 

"Aren't  they  pretty  conservative  for  your  ideas?" 

Edmonds,  ruminating  over  a  pipe  even  smaller  and  more 
fragile  than  the  one  sacrificed  to  his  rage  and  disgust,  the  day  of 
his  resignation,  gave  utterance  to  a  profound  truth : 

"What's  the  difference  whether  a  newspaper  is  radical  or  con 
servative,  Ban,  if  it  tells  the  truth  ?  That's  the  whole  test  and 
touchstone;  to  give  news  honestly.  The  rest  will  take  care  of 
itself.  Compared  to  us  The  Sphere  crowd  are  conservative.  But 
they're  honest.  And  they're  not  afraid." 

"Yes.  They're  honest,  and  not  afraid  —  because  they  don't 
have  to  be,"  said  Banneker,  in  a  tone  so  somber  that  his  friend 
said  quickly : 

"I  didn't  mean  that  for  you,  son." 

"Well,  if  I've  gone  wrong,  I've  got  my  punishment  before  me," 
pursued  the  other  with  increased  gloom.  "Having  to  work  for 
Marrineal  and  further  his  plans,  after  knowing  him  as  I  know  him 
now  —  that's  a  refined  species  of  retribution,  Pop." 

"I  know;  I  know.  You've  got  to  stick  and  wait  your  chance, 
and  hold  your  following  until  you  can  get  your  own  newspaper. 
Then,"  said  Russell  Edmonds  with  the  glory  of  an  inspired  vision 
shining  in  his  weary  eyes,  "you  can  tell  'em  all  to  go  to  hell.  Oh, 
for  a  paper  of  our  own  kind  that's  really  independent ;  that  don't 
care  a  hoot  for  anything  except  to  get  the  news  and  get  it  straight, 
and  interpret  it  straight ;  that  don't  have  to  be  afraid  of  anything 
but  not  being  honest ! " 

"Pop,"  said  Banneker,  spiritlessly,  "what's  the  use?  How  do 
we  know  we  aren't  chasing  a  rainbow?  How  do  we  know  people 
want  an  honest  paper  or  would  know  one  if  they  saw  it? " 


Fulfillment  511 

"My  God,  son!  Don't  talk  like  that,"  implored  the  veteran. 
"That's  the  one  heresy  for  which  men  in  our  game  are  eternally 
damned  —  and  deserve  it." 

"All  right.  I  know  it.  I  don't  mean  it,  Pop.  I'm  not  adopting 
Marrineal's  creed.  Not  just  yet." 

"By  the  way,  Marrineal  was  asking  for  you  this  morning." 

"Was  he?  I'll  look  him  up.  Perhaps  he's  going  to  fire  me.  I 
wish  he  would." 

"  Catch  him ! "  grunted  the  other,  reverting  to  his  task.  "  More 
likely  going  to  raise  your  salary." 

As  between  the  two  surmises,  Edmonds's  was  the  nearer  the 
truth.  Urbane  as  always,  the  proprietor  of  The  Patriot  waved  his 
editor  to  a  seat,  remarking,  "I  hope  you'll  sit  down  this  time," 
the  slightly  ironical  tinge  to  the  final  words  being,  in  the  course 
of  the  interview,  his  only  reference  to  their  previous  encounter. 
Wondering  dully  whether  Marrineal  could  have  any  idea  of  the 
murderous  hatred  which  he  inspired,  Banneker  took  the  nearest 
chair  and  waited.  After  some  discussion  as  to  the  policy  of  the 
paper  in  respect  to  the  strike,  which  was  on  the  point  of  settle 
ment  by  compromise,  Marrineal  set  his  delicate  ringers  point  to 
point  and  said : 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  the  future." 

"I'm  listening,"  returned  Banneker  uncompromisingly. 

"Your  ultimate  ambition  is  to  own  and  control  a  newspaper 
of  your  own,  isn't  it?" 

"Why  do  you  think  that?" 

Marrineal's  slow,  sparse  smile  hardly  moved  his  lips.  "It's 
in  character  that  you  should.  What  else  is  there  for  you?" 

"Well?" 

"Have  you  ever  thought  of  The  Patriot?" 

Involuntarily  Banneker  straightened  in  his  chair.  "Is  The 
Patriot  in  the  market?" 

"Hardly.  That  isn't  what  I  have  in  mind  " 

"Will  you  kindly  be  more  explicit?" 

"Mr.  Banneker,  I  intend  to  be  the  next  governor  of  this  State." 

"I  might  quote  a  proverb  on  that  point,"  returned  the  editor 
unpleasantly. 


512  Success 


"Yes;  and  I  might  cap  your  cup-and-lip  proverb  with  another 
as  to  the  effect  of  money  as  a  stimulus  in  a  horse-race." 

"I  have  no  doubts  as  to  your  financial  capacity." 

"My  organization  is  building  up  through  the  State.  I've  got 
the  country  newspapers  in  a  friendly,  not  to  say  expectant, 
mood.  There's  just  one  man  I'm  afraid  of." 

"  Judge  Enderby?" 

"Exactly." 

"I  should  think  he  would  be  an  admirable  nominee." 

"As  an  individual  you  are  at  liberty  to  hold  such  opinions  as 
you  please.  As  editor  of  The  Patriot  — " 

"I  am  to  support  The  Patriot  candidate  and  owner.  Did  you 
send  for  me  to  tell  me  that,  Mr.  Marrineal?  I'm  not  altogether 
an  idiot,  please  remember." 

"You  are  a  friend  of  Judge  Enderby." 

"If  I  am,  that  is  a  personal,  not  a  political  matter.  No  matter 
how  much  I  might  prefer  to  see  him  the  candidate  of  the  party" 
—  Banneker  spoke  with  cold  deliberation  —  "I  should  not 
stultify  myself  or  the  paper  by  supporting  him  against  the  paper's 
owner." 

"That  is  satisfactory."  Marrineal  swallowed  the  affront  with 
out  a  gulp.  "To  continue.  If  I  am  elected  governor,  nothing  on 
earth  can  prevent  my  being  the  presidential  nominee  two  years 
later." 

Equally  appalled  and  amused  by  the  enormous  egotism  of  the 
man  thus  suddenly  revealed,  Banneker  studied  him  in  silence. 

"Nothing  in  the  world,"  repeated  the  other.  "I  have  the 
political  game  figured  out  to  an  exact  science.  I  know  how  to 
shape  my  policies,  how  to  get  the  money  backing  I  need,  how 
to  handle  the  farmer  and  labor.  It  may  be  news  to  you  to  know 
that  I  now  control  eight  of  the  leading  farm  journals  of  the 
country  and  half  a  dozen  labor  organs.  However,  this  is  beside 
the  question.  My  point  with  you  is  this.  With  my  election  as 
governor,  my  chief  interest  in  The  Patriot  ceases.  The  paper  will 
have  set  me  on  the  road ;  I'll  do  the  rest.  Reserving  only  the 
right  to  determine  certain  very  broad  policies,  I  purpose  to  turn 
over  the  control  of  The  Patriot  to  you." 


Fulfillment  513 


"To  me!"  said  Banneker,  thunderstruck. 

"Provided  I  am  elected  governor,"  said  Marrineal.  "Which 
depends  largely  —  yes,  almost  entirely  —  on  the  elimination  of 
Judge  Enderby." 

"What  are  you  asking  me  to  do?"  demanded  Banneker, 
genuinely  puzzled. 

'Absolutely  nothing.  As  my  right-hand  man  on  the  paper, 
you  are  entitled  to  know  my  plans,  particularly  as  they  affect 
you.  I  can  add  that  when  I  reach  the  White  House  " —  this  with 
sublime  confidence — "the  paper  will  be  for  sale  and  you  may 
have  the  option  on  it." 

Banneker's  brain  seemed  filled  with  flashes  of  light,  as  he  re 
turned  to  his  desk.  He  sat  there,  deep-slumped  in  his  chair, 
thinking,  planning,  suspecting,  plumbing  for  the  depths  of 
Marrineal's  design,  and  above  all  filled  with  an  elate  ambition. 
Not  that  he  believed  for  a  moment  in  Marrineal's  absurd  and 
megalomaniacal  visions  of  the  presidency.  But  the  governor 
ship  ;  that  indeed  was  possible  enough ;  and  that  would  mean  a 
free  hand  for  Banneker  for  the  term.  What  might  he  not  do  with 
The  Patriot  in  that  time ! ...  An  insistent  and  obtrusive  dis 
turbance  to  his  profound  cogitation  troubled  him.  What  was  it 
that  seemed  to  be  setting  forth  a  claim  to  divide  his  attention  ? 
Ah,  the  telephone.  He  thrust  it  aside,  but  it  would  not  be  si 
lenced.  Well ...  what ...  The  discreet  voice  of  his  man  said 
that  a  telegram  had  come  for  him.  All  right  (with  impatience) ; 
read  it  over  the  wire.  The  message,  thus  delivered  in  mechanical 
tones,  struck  from  his  mind  the  lesser  considerations  which  a 
moment  before  had  glowed  with  such  shifting  and  troublous 
glory. 

D.  died  this  morning.  Will  write. 

I. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WORK,  incessant  and  of  savage  ardor,  now  filled  Banneker's  life. 
Once  more  he  immersed  himself  in  it  as  assuagement  to  the 
emptiness  of  long  days  and  the  yearning  of  longer  nights.  For, 
in  the  three  months  since  Delavan  Eyre's  death,  Banneker  had 
seen  lo  but  once,  and  then  very  briefly.  Instead  of  subduing  her 
loveliness,  the  mourning  garb  enhanced  and  enriched  it,  like  a 
jet  setting  to  a  glowing  jewel.  More  irresistibly  than  ever  she  was 

" that  Lady  Beauty  in  whose  praise 

The  voice  and  hand  shake  still" — 

but  there  was  something  about  her  withdrawn,  aloof  of  spirit, 
which  he  dared  not  override  or  even  challenge.  She  spoke  briefly 
of  Eyre,  without  any  pretense  of  great  sorrow,  dwelling  with  a 
kindled  eye  on  that  which  she  had  found  admirable  in  him ;  his 
high  and  steadfast  courage  through  atrocious  suffering  until 
darkness  settled  down  on  his  mind.  Her  own  plans  were  definite ; 
she  was  going  away  with  the  elder  Mrs.  Eyre  to  a  rest  resort. 
Of  The  Patriot  and  its  progress  she  talked  with  interest,  but  her 
questions  were  general  and  did  not  touch  upon  the  matter  of  the 
surrendered  editorial.  Was  she  purposely  avoiding  it  or  had  it 
passed  from  her  mind  in  the  stress  of  more  personal  events? 
Banneker  would  have  liked  to  know,  but  deemed  it  better  not  to 
ask.  Once  he  tried  to  elicit  from  her  some  indication  of  when  she 
would  marry  him ;  but  from  this  decision  she  exhibited  a  covert 
and  inexplicable  shrinking.  This  he  might  attribute,  if  he  chose, 
to  that  innate  and  sound  formalism  which  would  always  lead  her 
to  observe  the  rules  of  the  game ;  if  from  no  special  respect  for 
them  as  such,  then  out  of  deference  to  the  prejudices  of  others. 
Nevertheless,  he  experienced  a  gnawing  uncertainty,  amounting 
to  a  half-confessed  dread. 

Yet,  at  the  moment  of  parting,  she  came  to  his  arms,  clung  to 
him,  gave  him  her  lips  passionately,  longingly ;  bade  him  write, 
for  his  letters  would  be  all  that  there  was  to  keep  life  radiant 
for  her . . 


Fulfillment  515 


Through  some  perverse  kink  in  his  mental  processes,  he  found 
it  difficult  to  write  to  lo,  in  the  succeeding  weeks  and  months, 
during  which  she  devotedly  accompanied  the  failing  Mrs.  Eyre 
from  rest  cure  to  sanitarium,  about  his  work  on  The  Patriot. 
That  interplay  of  interest  between  them  in  his  editorial  plans  and 
purposes,  which  had  so  stimulated  and  inspired  him,  was  checked. 
The  mutual  current  had  ceased  to  flash ;  at  least,  so  he  felt.  Had 
the  wretched  affair  of  his  forfeited  promise  in  the  matter  of  the 
strike  announcement  destroyed  one  bond  between  them?  Even 
were  this  true,  there  were  other  bonds,  of  the  spirit  and  therefore 
irrefragable,  to  hold  her  to  him ;  thus  he  comforted  his  anxious 
hopes. 

Because  their  community  of  interest  in  his  work  had  lapsed, 
Banneker  found  the  savor  oozing  out  of  his  toil.  Monotony  sang 
its  dispiriting  drone  in  his  ears.  He  flung  himself  into  polo  with 
reawakened  vim,  and  roused  the  hopes  of  The  Retreat  for  the 
coming  season,  until  an  unlucky  spill  broke  two  ribs  and  dis 
located  a  shoulder.  Restless  in  the  physical  idleness  of  his  mend 
ing  days,  he  took  to  drifting  about  in  the  whirls  and  ripples  and 
backwaters  of  the  city  life,  out  of  which  wanderings  grew  a  new 
series  of  the  "Vagrancies,"  more  quaint  and  delicate  and  trench 
ant  than  the  originals  because  done  with  a  pen  under  perfected 
mastery,  without  losing  anything  of  the  earlier  simplicity  and 
sympathy.  In  this  work,  Banneker  found  relief;  and  in  lo's 
delight  in  it,  a  reflected  joy  that  lent  fresh  impetus  to  his  special 
genius.  The  Great  Gaines  enthusiastically  accepted  the  new 
sketches  for  his  magazine. 

Whatever  ebbing  of  fervor  from  his  daily  task  Banneker  might 
feel,  his  public  was  conscious  of  no  change  for  the  worse.  Letters 
of  commendation,  objection,  denunciation,  and  hysteria,  most 
convincing  evidence  of  an  editor's  sway  over  the  public  mind, 
increased  weekly.  So,  also,  did  the  circulation  of  The  Patriot, 
and  its  advertising  revenue.  Its  course  in  the  garment  strike  had 
satisfied  the  heavy  local  advertisers  of  its  responsibility  and 
repentance  for  sins  past ;  they  testified,  by  material  support,  to 
their  appreciation.  Banneker's  strongly  pro-labor  editorials  they 
read  with  the  mental  commentary  that  probably  The  Patriot 


516  Success 

had  to  do  that  kind  of  thing  to  hold  its  circulation ;  but  it  could 
be  depended  upon  to  be  "  right "  when  the  pinch  came.  Marrineal 
would  see  to  that. 

Since  the  episode  of  the  killed  proof,  Marrineal  had  pursued 
a  hands-off  policy  with  regard  to  the  editorial  page.  The  labor 
editorials  suited  him  admirably.  They  were  daily  winning  back 
to  the  paper  the  support  of  Marrineal's  pet  "common  people" 
who  had  been  alienated  by  its  course  in  the  strike,  for  McClin- 
tick  and  other  leaders  had  been  sedulously  spreading  the  story 
of  the  rejected  strikers'  advertisement.  But,  it  appeared,  Mar 
rineal's  estimate  of  the  public's  memory  was  correct:  "They 
never  remember."  Banneker's  skillful  and  vehement  preach 
ments  against  Wall  Street,  money  domination  of  the  masses,  and 
the  like,  went  far  to  wipe  out  the  inherent  anti-labor  record  of  the 
paper  and  its  owner.  Hardly  a  day  passed  that  some  working- 
man's  union  or  club  did  not  pass  resolutions  of  confidence  and 
esteem  for  Tertius  C.  Marrineal  and  The  Patriot.  It  amused 
Marrineal  almost  as  much  as  it  gratified  him.  As  a  political  asset 
it  was  invaluable.  His  one  cause  of  complaint  against  the  edi 
torial  page  was  that  it  would  not  attack  Judge  Enderby,  except 
on  general  political  or  economic  principles.  And  the  forte  of  The 
Patriot  in  attack  did  not  consist  in  polite  and  amenable  forensics. 
Its  readers  were  accustomed  to  the  methods  of  the  prize-ring 
rather  than  the  debating  platform.  However,  Marrineal  made 
up  for  his  editorial  writer's  lukewarmness,  by  the  vigor  of  his  own 
attacks  upon  Enderby.  For,  by  early  summer,  it  became  evident 
that  the  nomination  (and  probable  election)  lay  between  these 
two  opponents.  Enderby  was  organizing  a  strong  campaign. 
So  competent  and  unbiased  an  observer  of  political  events  as 
Russell  Edmonds,  now  on  The  Sphere,  believed  that  Marrineal 
would  be  beaten.  Shrewd,  notwithstanding  his  egotism,  Marri 
neal  entertained  a  growing  dread  of  this  outcome  himself. 
Through  roundabout  channels,  he  let  his  chief  editorial  writer 
understand  that,  when  the  final  onset  was  timed,  The  Patriot's 
editorial  page  would  be  expected  to  lead  the  charge  with  the 
"  spear  that  knows  no  brother."  Banneker  would  appreciate  that 
his  own  interests,  almost  as  much  as  his  chief's,  were  committed 
to  the  overthrow  of  Willis  Enderby. 


Fulfillment  517 

It  was  not  a  happy  time  for  the  Editor  of  The  Patriot. 

Happiness  promised  for  the  near  future,  however.  Wearied  of 
chasing  a  phantom  hope  of  health  from  spot  to  spot,  the  elder 
Mrs.  Eyre  had  finally  elected  to  settle  down  for  the  summer  at 
her  Westchester  place.  For  obvious  reasons,  lo  did  not  wish  Ban- 
neker  to  come  there.  But  she  would  plan  to  see  him  in  town. 
Only,  they  must  be  very  discreet ;  perhaps  even  to  the  extent  of 
having  a  third  person  dine  with  them,  her  half-brother  Archie,  or 
Esther  Forbes.  Any  one,  any  time,  anywhere,  Banneker  wrote 
back,  provided  only  he  could  see  her  again ! 

The  day  that  she  came  to  town,  having  arranged  to  meet 
Banneker  for  dinner  with  Esther,  fate  struck  from  another  and 
unexpected  quarter.  Such  was  Banneker's  appearance  when  he 
came  forward  to  greet  her  that  lo  cried  out  involuntarily,  asking 
if  he  were  ill. 

"I'm  not,"  he  answered  briefly.  Then,  with  a  forced  smile  of 
appeal  to  the  third  member,  "Do  you  mind,  Esther,  if  I  talk  to 
lo  on  a  private  matter?" 

"  Go  as  near  as  you  like,"  returned  that  understanding  young 
person  promptly.  "  I'm  consumed  with  a  desire  to  converse  with 
Elsie  Maitland,  who  is  dining  in  that  very  farthest  corner.  Back 
in  an  hour." 

"It's  Camilla  Van  Arsdale,"  said  Banneker  as  the  girl  left.    I 

"You've  heard  from  her?" 

"  From  Mindle  who  looks  after  my  shack  there.  He  says  she's 
very  ill.  I've  got  to  go  out  there  at  once." 

"Oh,  Ban!" 

"  I  know,  dearest,  and  after  all  these  endless  weeks  of  separa 
tion.  But  you  wouldn't  have  me  do  otherwise.  Would  you?" 

"Of  course  not,"  she  said  indignantly.  "When  do  you  start ?" 

"At  midnight." 
'And  your  work?" 

"I'll  send  my  stuff  in  by  wire." 

" How  long?" 

"I  can't  tell  until  I  get  there." 

"Ban,  you  mustn't  go,"  she  said  with  a  changed  tone. 

"Not  go?  To  Miss  Camilla?  There's  nothing  — " 

"111  go." 


518  Success 

"You!" 

"Why  not?  If  she's  seriously  ill,  she  needs  a  woman,  not  a 
man  with  her." 

"But  —  but,  lo,  you  don't  even  like  her." 

'  Heaven  give  you  understanding,  Ban,"  she  retorted  with  a 
bewitching  pretext  of  enforced  patience.  "She's  a  woman,  and 
she  was  good  to  me  in  my  trouble.  And  if  that  weren't  enough, 
she's  your  friend  whom  you  love." 

"I  oughtn't  to  let  you,"  he  hesitated. 

"You've  got  to  let  me.  I'd  go,  anyway.  Get  Esther  back. 
She  must  help  me  pack.  Get  me  a  drawing-room  if  VQU  can.  If 
not,  I'll  take  your  berth." 

"You're  going  to  leave  to-night?" 

"Of  course.  What  would  you  suppose?"  She  gave  him  her 
lustrous  smile.  "I'll  love  it,"  she  said  softly,  "because  it's  partly 
for  you." 

The  rest  of  the  evening  was  consumed  for  Banneker  in  writing 
and  wiring,  arranging  reservations  through  his  influence  with  a 
local  railroad  official  whom  he  pried  loose  from  a  rubber  of  bridge 
at  his  club ;  while  lo  and  Esther,  dinnerless  except  for  a  hasty 
box  of  sandwiches,  were  back  in  Westchester  packing  and  ex 
plaining  to  Mrs.  Eyre.  When  the  three  reconvened  in  lo's  draw 
ing-room  the  traveler  was  prepared  for  an  indefinite  stay. 

"If  her  condition  is  critical  I'll  wire  for  you,"  promised  lo. 
"Otherwise  you  mustn't  come." 

With  that  he  must  make  shift  to  be  content ;  that  and  a  swift 
clasp  of  her  arms,  a  clinging  pressure  of  her  lips,  and  her  soft 
"  Good-bye.  Oh,  good-bye !  Love  me  every  minute  while  I'm 
gone,"  before  the  tactful  Esther  Forbes,  somewhat  miscast  in  the 
temporary  role  of  Propriety,  returned  from  a  conversation  with 
the  porter  to  say  that  they  really  must  get  off  that  very  instant 
or  be  carried  westward  to  the  eternal  scandal  of  society  which 
would  not  understand  a  triangular  elopement. 

Loneliness  no  longer  beset  Banneker,  even  though  lo  was 
farther  separated  from  him  than  before  in  the  unimportant 
reckoning  of  geographical  miles ;  for  now  she  was  on  his  errand. 
He  held  her  by  the  continuous  thought  of  a  vital  common  in- 


Fulfillment  519 

terest.  In  place  of  the  former  bereavement  of  spirit  was  a  new 
and  consuming  anxiety  for  Camilla  Van  Arsdale.  lo's  first  tele 
gram  from  Manzanita  went  far  to  appease  that.  Miss  Van 
Arsdale  had  suffered  a  severe  shock,  but  was  now  on  the  road  to 
recovery:  lo  would  stay  indefinitely:  there  was  no  reason  for 
Banneker's  coming  out  for  the  present:  in  fact,  the  patient 
definitely  prohibited  it :  letter  followed. 

The  letter,  when  it  came,  forced  a  cry,  as  of  physical  pain, 
from  Banneker's  throat.  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  was  going  blind. 
Some  obscure  reflex  of  the  heart  trouble  had  affected  the  blood 
supply  of  the  eyes,  and  the  shock  of  discovering  this  had  reacted 
upon  the  heart.  There  was  no  immediate  danger ;  but  neither 
was  there  ultimate  hope  of  restored  vision.  So  much  the  eminent 
oculist  whom  lo  had  brought  from  Angelica  City  told  her. 

Your  first  thought  (wrote  lo)  will  be  to  come  out  here  at  once. 
Don't.  It  will  be  much  better  for  you  to  wait  until  she  needs  you  more; 
until  you  can  spend  two  or  three  weeks  or  a  month  with  her.  Now  I 
can  help  her  through  the  days  by  reading  to  her  and  walking  with  her. 
You  don't  know  how  happy  it  makes  me  to  be  here  where  I  first  knew 
you,  to  live  over  every  event  of  those  days.  Your  movable  shack  is 
almost  as  it  used  to  be,  though  there  is  no  absurd  steel  boat  outside 
for  me  to  stumble  into. 

Would  you  believe  it ;  the  new  station-agent  has  a  Sears-Roebuck 
catalogue!  I  borrowed  it  of  him  to  read.  What,  oh,  what  should  a 
sensible  person  —  yes,  I  am  a  sensible  person,  Ban,  outside  of  my  love 
for  you  —  and  I'd  scorn  to  be  sensible  about  that  —  Where  was  I? 
Oh,  yes;  what  should  a  sensible  person  find  in  these  simple  words 
"Two  horse-power,  reliable  and  smooth-running,  economical  of  gaso 
line,"  and  so  on,  to  make  her  want  to  cry?  Ban,  send  me  a  copy  of 
"The  Voices." 

He  sent  her  "The  Undying  Voices "  and  other  books  to  read, 
and  long,  impassioned  letters,  and  other  letters  to  be  read  to 
Camilla  Van  Arsdale  whose  waning  vision  must  be  spared  in 
every  possible  way. 

Hour  after  hour  (wrote  lo)  she  sits  at  the  piano  and  makes  her 
wonderful  music,  and  tries  to  write  it  down.  There  I  can  be  of  very 
little  help  to  her.  Then  she  will  go  bac>  **tto  her  room  and  lie  on  the 


520  Success 


big  couch  near  the  window  where  the  young,  low  pines  brush  the  wall, 
with  Cousin  Billy's  photograph  in  her  hands,  and  be  so  deathly  quiet 
that  I  sometimes  get  frightened  and  creep  up  to  the  door  to  peer  in 
and  be  sure  that  she  is  all  right.  To-day  when  I  looked  in  at  the  door  I 
heard  her  say,  quite  softly  to  herself:  "I  shall  die  without  seeing  his 
face  again."  I  had  to  hold  my  breath  and  run  out  into  the  forest.  Ban, 
I  didn't  know  that  it  was  in  me  to  cry  so  —  not  since  that  night  on  the 
train  when  I  left  you ....  This  all  seems  so  wicked  and  wrong  and  — 
yes  —  wasteful.  Think  of  what  these  two  splendid  people  could  be  to 
each  other!  She  craves  him  so,  Ban;  just  the  sound  of  his  voice,  a 
word  from  him;  but  she  won't  break  her  own  word.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  shall  do  it.  Write  me  all  you  can  about  him,  Ban,  and  send 
papers:  all  the  political  matter.  You  can't  imagine  what  it  is  to  her 
only  to  hear  about  him. 

So  Banneker  had  clippings  collected,  wrote  a  little  daily  politi 
cal  bulletin  for  lo ;  even  went  out  of  his  way  editorially  to  pay  an 
occasional  handsome  tribute  to  Judge  Enderby's  personal  char 
acter,  whilst  adducing  cogent  reasons  why,  as  the  "Wall  Street 
and  traction  candidate,"  he  should  be  defeated.  But  his  personal 
opinion,  expressed  for  the  behoof  of  his  correspondents  in  Man- 
zanita,  was  that  he  probably  could  not  be  defeated;  that  his 
brilliant  and  aggressive  campaign  was  forcing  Marrineal  to  a 
defensive  and  losing  fight. 

"It  is  a  great  asset  in  politics,"  wrote  Banneiter  to  Miss 
Camilla,  "  to  have  nothing  to  hide  or  explain.  If  we're  going  to  be 
licked,  there  is  no  man  in  the  world  whom  I'd  as  gladly  have  win 
as  Judge  Enderby." 

All  this,  of  course,  in  the  manner  of  one  having  interesting 
political  news  of  no  special  import  to  the  receiver  of  the  news,  to 
deliver ;  and  quite  without  suggestion  of  any  knowledge  regard 
ing  her  personal  concern  in  the  matter  ~ 

But  between  the  lines  of  lo's  letters,  full  of  womanly  pity  for 
Camilla  Van  Arsdale,  of  resentment  for  her  thwarted  and  hope 
less  longing,  Banneker  thought  to  discern  a  crystallizing  resolu 
tion.  It  would  be  so  like  lo's  imperious  temper  to  take  the  deci 
sion  into  her  own  hands,  to  bring  about  a  meeting  between  the 
long-sundered  lovers,  to  cast  into  the  lonely  and  valiant  woman's 
darkening  life  one  brief  and  splendid  glow  of  warmth  and  radi- 


Fulfillment  521 

ance.  For  to  lo,  a  summons  for  Willis  Enderby  to  come  would  be 
no  more  than  a  defiance  of  the  conventions.  She  knew  nothing  of 
the  ruinous  vengeance  awaiting  any  breach  of  faith  on  his  part, 
at  the  hands  of  a  virulent  and  embittered  wife ;  she  did  not  even 
know  that  his  coming  would  be  a  specific  breach  of  faith,  for 
Banneker,  withheld  by  his  promise  of  secrecy  to  Russell  Ed 
monds,  had  never  told  her.  Nor  had  he  betrayed  to  her  the 
espionage  under  which  Enderby  constantly  moved ;  he  shrank, 
naturally,  from  adding  so  ignoble  an  item  to  the  weight  of  dis 
repute  under  which  The  Patriot  already  lay,  in  her  mind. .  .  . 
Sooner  or  later  he  must  face  the  question  from  her  of  why  he 
had  not  resigned  rather  than  put  his  honor  in  pawn  to  the 
baser  uses  of  the  newspaper  and  its  owner's  ambitions.  To  that 
question  there  could  be  no  answer.  He  could  not  throw  the  onus 
of  it  upon  her,  by  revealing  to  her  that  the  necessity  of  protect 
ing  her  name  against  the  befoulment  of  The  Searchlight  was  the 
compelling  motive  of  his  uassivity.  That  was  not  within  Banne- 
ker's  code. 

What,  meantime,  should  be  his  course?  Should  he  write  and 
warn  lo  about  Enderby  ?  Could  he  make  himself  explicable  with 
out  explaining  too  much  ?  After  all,  what  right  had  he  to  assume 
that  she  would  gratuitously  intermeddle  in  the  disastrous  fates 
of  others  ?  A  rigorous  respect  for  the  rights  of  privacy  was  written 
into  the  rules  of  the  game  as  she  played  it.  He  argued,  with  logic 
irrefutable  as  it  was  unconvincing,  that  this  alone  ought  to  stay 
her  hand ;  yet  he  knew,  by  the  power  of  their  own  yearning,  one 
for  the  other,  that  in  the  great  cause  of  love,  whether  for  them 
selves  or  for  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  and  Willis  Enderby,  she 
would  resistlessly  follow  the  impulse  born  and  matured  of  her 
own  passion.  Had  she  not  once  before  denied  love .  .  .  aiid  to  what 
end  of  suffering  and  bitter  enlightenment  and  long  waiting  not 
yet  ended  !  Yes ;  she  would  send  for  Willis  Enderby. 

Thus,  with  the  insight  of  love,  he  read  the  heart  of  the  loved 
one.  Self-interest  lifted  its  specious  voice  now,  in  contravention. 
If  she  did  send,  and  if  Judge  Enderby  went  to  Camilla  Van 
Arsdale,  as  Banneker  knew  surely  that  he  would,  and  if  Ely 
Ives's  spies  discovered  it,  the  way  was  made  plain  and  peaceful 


522  Success 


for  Banneker.  For,  in  that  case,  the  blunderbuss  of  blackmail 
would  be  held  to  Enderby's  head  :  he  must,  perforce,  retire  from 
the  race  on  whatever  pretext  he  might  devise,  under  threat  of  a 
scandal  which,  in  any  case,  would  drive  him  out  of  public  life. 
Marrineal  would  be  nominated,  probably  elected ;  control  of  The 
Patriot  would  pass  into  Banneker 's  hands ;  The  Searchlight  would 
thus  be  held  at  bay  until  he  and  lo  were  married,  for  he  could  not 
really  doubt  that  she  would  marry  him,  even  though  there  lay 
between  them  an  unexplained  doubt  and  a  seeming  betrayal; 
and  he  could  remould  the  distorted  and  debased  policies  of  The 
Patriot  to  his  heart's  desire  of  an  honest  newspaper  fearlessly 
presenting  and  supporting  truth  as  he  saw  it. 

All  this  at  no  price  of  treachery ;  merely  by  leaving  matters 
which  were,  in  fact,  no  concern  of  his,  to  the  arbitrament  of  what 
ever  fates  might  concern  themselves  with  such  troublous  mat 
ters  ;  it  was  just  a  matter  of  minding  his  own  business  and  assum 
ing  that  lo  Eyre  would  do  likewise.  So  argued  self-interest,  plaus 
ible,  persuasive.  He  went  to  bed  with  the  argument  still  unset 
tled,  and,  because  it  seethed  in  his  mind,  reached  out  to  his 
reading-stand  to  cool  his  brain  with  the  limpid  philosophies  of 
Stevenson's  "Virginibus  Puerisque." 

"The  cruellest  lies  are  often  told  in  silence,"  he  read  —  the 
very  letters  of  the  words  seemed  to  scorch  his  eyes  with  prophetic 
fires.  "  A  man  may  have  sat  in  a  room  for  hours  and  not  opened 
his  teeth  and  yet  come  out  of  that  room  a  disloyal  friend  or  a 
vile  calumniator.  And  how  many  loves  have  perished,  because 
from—" 

Banneker  sprang  from  his  bed,  shaking.  He  dressed  himself, 
consulted  his  watch,  wrote  a  brief,  urgent  line  to  lo,  after  'phon 
ing  for  a  taxi ;  carried  it  to  the  station  himself,  assured,  though 
only  by  a  few  minutes'  margin,  of  getting  it  into  the  latest  West 
ern  mail,  returned  to  bed  and  slept  heavily  and  dreamlessly. . .  . 
Not  over  the  bodies  of  a  loved  friend  and  an  honored  foe  would 
Errol  Banneker  climb  to  a  place  of  safety  for  lo  and  triumph  for 
himself. 

Mail  takes  four  days  to  reach  Manzanita  from  New  York 


Fulfillment  523 


Through  the  hot  months  The  House  With  Three  Eyes  had 
kept  its  hospitable  orbs  darkened  of  Saturday  nights.  Therefore, 
Banneker  was  free  to  spend  his  week-ends  at  The  Retreat,  and 
his  Friday  and  Saturday  mail  were  forwarded  to  the  nearest 
country  post-office,  whither  he  sent  for  it,  or  picked  it  up  on  his 
way  back  to  town.  It  was  on  Saturday  evening  that  he  received 
the  letter  from  lo,  saying  that  she  had  written  to  Willis  Enderby 
to  come  on  to  Manzanita  and  let  the  eyes,  for  which  he  had  filled 
life's  whole  horizon  since  first  they  met  his,  look  on  him  once 
more  before  darkness  shut  down  on  them  forever.  Her  letter  had 
crossed  Banneker's. 

"  I  know  that  he  will  come, "  she  wrote.  "He  must  come. 
It  would  be  too  cruel . . .  and  I  know  his  heart." 

Eight-thirty-six  in  the  evening!  And  lo's  letter  to  Enderby 
must  have  reached  him  in  New  York  that  morning.  He  would  be 
taking  the  fast  train  for  the  West  leaving  at  eleven.  Banneker 
sent  in  a  call  on  the  long-distance  'phone  for  Judge  Enderby's 
house.  The  twelve-minute  wait  was  interminable  to  his  grilling 
impatience.  At  length  the  placid  tones  of  Judge  Enderby's  man 
responded.  Yes ;  the  Judge  was  there.  No ;  he  couldn't  be  dis 
turbed  on  any  account ;  very  much  occupied. 

"This  is  Mr.  Banneker.  I  must  speak  to  him  for  just  a  mo 
ment.  It's  vital." 

"Very  sorry,  sir,"  responded  the  unmoved  voice.  "But  Judge 
Enderby's  orders  was  absloot.  Not  to  be  disturbed  on  any  ac 
count." 

"Tell  him  that  Mr.  Banneker  has  something  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  say  to  him  before  he  leaves." 

"Sorry,  sir.  It'd  be  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth." 

Raging,  Banneker  nevertheless  managed  to  control  himself, 
"He  is  leaving  on  a  trip  to-night,  is  he  not?" 

After  some  hesitation  the  voice  replied  austerely :  "  I  believe 
he  is,  sir.  Good-bye." 

Banneker  cursed  Judge  Enderby  for  a  fool  of  rigid  methods. 
It  would  be  his  own  fault.  Let  him  go  to  his  destruction,  then. 
He,  Banneker,  had  done  all  that  was  possible.  He  sank  into  a 
sort  of  lethargy,  brooding  over  the  fateful  obstacles  which  had 


524  Success 


obstructed  him  in  his  self-sacrificing  pursuit  of  the  right,  as 
against  his  own  dearest  interests.  He  might  telegraph  lo ;  but  to 
what  purpose?  An  idea  flashed  upon  him;  why  not  telegraph 
Enderby  at  his  home?  He  composed  message  after  message; 
tore  them  up  as  saying  too  much  or  too  little ;  ultimately  devised 
one  that  seemed  to  be  sufficient,  and  hurried  to  his  car,  to  take 
it  in  to  the  local  operator.  When  he  reached  the  village  office  it 
was  closed.  He  hurried  to  the  home  of  the  operator.  Out.  After 
two  false  trails,  he  located  the  man  at  a  church  sociable,  and  got 
the  message  off.  It  was  then  nearly  ten  o'clock.  He  had  wasted 
precious  moments  in  brooding.  Well,  he  had  done  all  and  more 
than  could  have  been  asked  of  him,  let  the  event  be  what  it 
would. 

His  night  was  a  succession  of  forebodings,  dreamed  or  half- 
wakeful.  Spent  and  dispirited,  he  rose  at  an  hour  quite  out  of 
accord  with  the  habits  of  The  Retreat,  sped  his  car  to  New  York, 
and  put  his  inquiry  to  Judge  Enderby's  man. 

Yes ;  the  telegram  had  arrived.  In  time  ?  No ;  it  was  delivered 
twenty  minutes  after  the  Judge  had  left  for  his  train. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SUN-LULLED  into  immobility,  the  desert  around  the  lonely  little 
station  of  Manzanita  smouldered  and  slumbered.  Nothing  was 
visibly  changed  from  five  years  before,  when  Banneker  left,  ex 
cept  that  another  agent,  a  disillusioned-appearing  young  man 
with  a  corn-colored  mustache,  came  forth  to  meet  the  slow  noon 
local,  chuffing  pantingly  in  under  a  bad  head  of  alkali-water 
steam.  A  lone  passenger,  obviously  Eastern  in  mien  and  garb, 
disembarked,  and  was  welcomed  by  a  dark,  beautiful,  harassed- 
looking  girl  who  had  just  ridden  in  on  a  lathered  pony.  The 
Kgent,  a  hopeful  soul,  ambled  within  earshot. 

"How  is  she?"  he  heard  the  man  say,  with  the  intensity  of  a 
single  thought,  as  the  girl  took  his  hand.  Her  reply  came,  en 
couragingly. 

"  As  brave  as  ever.  Stronger,  a  little,  I  think." 

"And  she  — the  eyes?" 

"She  will  be  able  to  see  you ;  but  not  clearly." 

"  How  long  — "  began  the  man,  but  his  voice  broke.  He  shook 
in  the  bitter  heat  as  if  from  some  inner  and  deadly  chill. 

"Nobody  can  tell.  She  hoards  her  sight." 

"To  see  me?"  he  cried  eagerly.  "Have  you  told  her?" 

"No." 

"Is  that  wise?"  he  questioned.  "The  shock—" 

"I  think  that  she  suspects;  she  senses  your  coming.  Her  face 
has  the  rapt  expression  that  I  have  seen  only  when  she  plays. 
Has  had  since  you  started.  Yet  there  is  no  possible  way  in  which 
she  could  have  learned." 

"That  is  very  wonderful,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  hushed  voice. 
Then,  hesitantly,  "What  shall  I  do,  lo?" 

"Nothing,"  came  the  girl's  clear  answer.  "Go  to  her,  that  is 
all." 

Another  horse  was  led  forward  and  the  pair  rode  away  through 
the  glimmering  heat. 
k   It  was  a  silent  ride  for  Willis  Enderby  and  lo.    The  girl  was 


526  Success 

still  a  little  daunted  at  her  own  temerity  in  playing  at  fate  with 
destinies  as  big  as  these.  As  for  Enderby,  there  was  no  room 
within  his  consciousness  for  any  other  thought  than  that  he  was 
going  to  see  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  again. 

He  heard  her  before  he  saw  her.  The  rhythms  of  a  song,  a 
tender  and  gay  little  lyric  which  she  had  sung  to  crowded  draw 
ing-rooms,  but  for  him  alone,  long  years  past,  floated  out  to  him, 
clear  and  pure,  through  the  clear,  pure  balm  of  the  forest.  He 
slipped  quietly  from  his  horse  and  saw  her,  through  the  window, 
seated  at  her  piano. 

Unchanged !  To  his  vision  the  years  had  left  no  impress  on 
her.  And  lo,  at  his  side,  saw  too  and  marveled  at  the  miracle. 
For  the  waiting  woman  looked  out  of  eyes  as  clear  and  untroubled 
as  those  of  a  child,  softened  only  with  the  questioning  wistful- 
ness  of  darkening  vision.  Suffering  and  fortitude  had  etherealized 
the  face  back  to  youth,  and  that  mysterious  expectancy  which 
had  possessed  her  for  days  had  touched  the  curves  of  her  mouth 
to  a  wonderful  tenderness,  the  softness  of  her  cheek  to  a  quicken 
ing  bloom.  She  turned  her  head  slowly  toward  the  door.  Her 
lips  parted  with  the  pressure  of  swift,  small  breaths. 

lo  felt  the  man's  tense  body,  pressed  against  her  as  if  for 
support,  convulsed  with  a  tremor  which  left  him  powerless. 

"I  have  brought  some  one  to  you,  Miss  Camilla,"  she  said 
clearly :  and  in  the  same  instant  of  speaking,  her  word  was  crossed 
by  the  other's  call : 

"Willis!" 

Sightless  though  she  was,  as  lo  knew,  for  anything  not  close 
before  her  eyes,  she  came  to  him,  as  inevitably,  as  unerringly  as 
steel  to  the  magnet,  and  was  folded  in  his  arms.  lo  heard  his 
deep  voice,  vibrant  between  desolation  and  passion : 

"Fifteen  years!  My  God,  fifteen  years!" 

lo  ran  away  into  the  forest,  utterly  glad  with  the  joy  of  which 
she  had  been  minister. 

Willis  Enderby  stayed  five  days  at  Manzanita ;  five  days  of 
ecstasy,  of  perfect  communion,  bought  from  the  rapacious  years 
at  the  price  of  his  broken  word.  For  that  he  was  willing  to  pay 
any  price  exacted,  asking  only  that  he  might  pay  it  alone,  that 


Fulfillment  527 


the  woman  of  his  long  and  self-denying  love  might  not  be  called 
upon  to  meet  any  smallest  part  of  the  debt.  She  walked  with 
him  under  the  pines :  he  read  to  her :  and  there  were  long  hours 
together  over  the  piano.  It  was  then  that  there  was  born,  out  of 
Camilla  Van  Arsdale's  love  and  faith  and  coming  abnegation, 
her  holy  and  deathless  song  for  the  dead,  to  the  noble  words  of 
the  "Dominus  Illuminatio  Mea,"  which  to-day,  chanted  over 
the  coffins  of  thousands,  brings  comfort  and  hope  to  stricken 
hearts. 

"In  the  hour  of  death,  after  this  life's  whim, 
When  the  heart  beats  low,  and  the  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  pain  has  exhausted  every  limb  — 
The  lover  of  the  Lord  shall  trust  in  Him." 

On  the  last  day  she  told  him  that  they  would  not  meet  again. 
Life  had  given  to  her  all  and  more  than  all  she  had  dared  ask  for. 
He  must  go  back  to  his  work  in  the  world,  to  the  high  endeavor 
that  was  laid  upon  him  as  an  obligation  of  his  power,  and  now  of 
their  love.  He  must  write  her;  she  could  not  do  without  that, 
now ;  but  guardedly,  for  other  eyes  than  hers  must  read  his  words 
to  her. 

"  Think  what  it  is  going  to  be  to  me,"  she  said,  "  to  follow  your 
course ;  to  be  able  to  pray  for  you,  fighting.  I  shall  take  all  the 
papers.  And  any  which  haven't  your  name  in  shall  be  burned  at 
once !  How  I  shall  be  jealous  even  of  your  public  who  love  and 
admire  you!  But  you  have  left  me  no  room  for  any  other 
jealousy. . ." 

"I  am  coming  back  to  you,"  he  said  doggedly,  at  the  final 
moment  of  parting.  "Sometime,  Camilla." 

"You  will  be  here  always,  in  the  darkness,  with  me.  And  I 
shall  love  my  blindness  because  it  shuts  out  anything  but  you," 
she  said. 

lo  rode  with  him  to  the  station.  On  the  way  they  discussed 
ways  and  means,  the  household  arrangements  when  lo  should 
have  to  leave,  the  finding  of  a  companion,  who  should  be  at  once 
nurse,  secretary,  and  amanuensis  for  Royce  Melvin's  music. 

"How  she  will  sing  now!"  said  lo- 


528  Success 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  station,  she  put  her  hand  on  his 
horse's  bridle. 

"Did  I  do  wrong  to  send  for  you,  Cousin  Billy?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  to  her  a  visage  transfigured. 

" You  needn't  answer,"  she  said  quickly.  "I  should  know, 
anyway.  It's  her  happiness  I'm  thinking  of.  It  can't  have  been 
wrong  to  give  so  much  happiness,  for  the  rest  of  her  life." 

"The  rest  of  her  life,"  he  echoed,  in  a  hushed  accent  of  dread. 

While  Enderby  was  getting  his  ticket,  lo  waited  on  the  front 
platform.  A  small,  wiry  man  came  around  the  corner  of  the  sta 
tion,  glanced  at  her,  and  withdrew.  lo  had  an  uneasy  notion  of 
having  seen  him  before  somewhere.  But  where,  and  when? 
Certainly  the  man  was  not  a  local  habitant.  Had  his  presence, 
then,  any  significance  for  her  or  hers?  Enderby  returned,  and 
the  two  stood  in  the  hard  morning  sunlight  beneath  the  broad 
sign  inscribed  with  the  station's  name. 

The  stranger  appeared  from  behind  a  freight-car  on  a  siding, 
and  hurried  up  to  within  a  few  yards  of  them.  From  beneath  his 
coat  he  slipped  a  blackish  oblong.  It  gave  forth  a  click,  and, 
after  swift  manipulation,  a  second  click.  Enderby  started  to 
ward  the  snap-shotter  who  turned  and  ran. 

"  Do  you  know  that  man  ?  "  he  asked,  whirling  upon  lo. 

A  gray  veil  seemed  to  her  drawn  down  over  his  features.  Or 
was  it  a  mist  of  dread  upon  lo's  own  vision  ? 

"I  have  seen  him  before,"  she  answered,  groping. 

"Who  is  he?" 

Memory  flashed  one  of  its  sudden  and  sure  illuminations  upon 
her:  a  Saturday  night  at  The  House  With  Three  Eyes;  this 
little  man  coming  in  with  Tertius  Marrineal ;  later,  peering  into 
the  flowerful  corner  where  she  sat  with  Banneker. 

"He  has  something  to  do  with  The  Patriot,"  she  answered 
steadily. 

"How  could  The  Patriot  know  of  my  coming  here?' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  lo.  She  was  deadly  pale  with  a  surmise 
too  monstrous  for  utterance. 

He  put  it  into  words  for  her. 

"  lo,  did  you  tell  Errol  Banneker  that  you  were  sending  for  me?" 


Fulfillment  529 


"Yes." 

Even  in  the  midst  of  the  ruin  which  he  saw  closing  in  upon 
his  career  —  that  career  upon  which  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  had 
newly  built  her  last  pride  and  hope  and  happiness  —  he  could 
feel  for  the  agony  of  the  girl  before  him. 

"He  couldn't  have  betrayed  me ! "  cried  lo :  but,  as  she  spoke, 
the  memory  of  other  treacheries  overwhelmed  her. 

The  train  rumbled  in.  Enderby  stooped  and  kissed  her  fore 
head.  ' 

"My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  "I'm  afraid  you've  trusted  him 
once  too  often." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AMONG  his  various  amiable  capacities,  Ely  Ives  included  that 
of  ceremonial  arranger.  Festivities  were  his  delight ;  he  was  ever 
on  the  lookout  for  occasions  of  celebration:  any  excuse  for  a 
gratulatory  function  sufficed  him.  Before  leaving  on  his  chase  to 
Manzanita,  he  had  conceived  the  festal  notion  of  a  dinner  in 
honor  of  Banneker,  not  that  he  cherished  any  love  for  him  since 
the  episode  of  the  bet  with  Delavan  Eyre,  but  because  his  shrewd 
foresight  perceived  in  it  a  closer  binding  of  the  editor  to  the 
wheels  of  the  victorious  Patriot.  Also  it  might  indirectly  redound 
to  the  political  advantage  of  Marrineal.  Put  thus  to  that  astute 
and  aspiring  public  servant,  it  enlisted  his  prompt  support.  He 
himself  would  give  the  feast :  no,  on  better  thought,  The  Patriot 
should  give  it.  It  would  be  choice  rather  than  large :  a  hundred 
guests  or  so ;  mainly  journalistic,  the  flower  of  Park  Row,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  important  politicians  and  financiers.  The  occasion  ? 
Why,  the  occasion  was  pat  to  hand !  The  thousandth  Banneker 
editorial  to  be  published  in  The  Patriot,  the  date  of  which  came 
early  in  the  following  month. 

Had  Ives  himself  come  to  Banneker  with  any  such  project,  it 
would  have  been  curtly  rejected.  Ives  kept  in  the  background. 
The  proposal  came  from  Marrineal,  and  in  such  form  that  for  the 
recipient  of  the  honor  to  refuse  it  would  have  appeared  impos 
sibly  churlish.  Little  though  he  desired  or  liked  such  a  function, 
Banneker  accepted  with  a  good  grace,  and  set  himself  to  write 
an  editorial,  special  to  the  event.  Its  title  was,  "What  Does 
Your  Newspaper  Mean  to  You?"  headed  with  the  quotation 
from  the  Areopagitica :  and  he  compressed  into  a  single  column 
all  his  dreams  and  idealities  of  what  a  newspaper  might  be  and 
mean  to  the  public  which  it  sincerely  served.  Specially  typed  and 
embossed,  it  was  arranged  as  the  dinner  souvenir. 

As  the  day  drew  near,  Banneker  had  less  and  less  taste  for  the 
ovation.  Forebodings  had  laid  hold  on  his  mind.  Enderby  had 
been  back  for  five  days,  and  had  taken  no  part  whatever  in  the 


Fulfillment  531 


current  political  activity.  Conflicting  rumors  were  in  the  air. 
The  anti-Marrineal  group  was  obviously  in  a  state  of  confu 
sion  and  doubt :  Marrineal's  friends  were  excited,  uncertain,  ex 
pectant. 

For  three  days  Banneker  had  had  no  letter  from  lo. 

The  first  intimation  of  what  had  actually  occurred  came  to  him 
just  before  he  left  the  office  to  dress  for  the  dinner  in  his  honor. 
Willis  Enderby  had  formally  withdrawn  from  the  governorship 
contest.  His  statement  given  out  for  publication  in  next  morn 
ing's  papers,  was  in  the  office.  Banneker  sent  for  it.  The  reason 
given  was  formal  and  brief;  nervous  breakdown;  imperative 
orders  from  his  physician.  The  whole  thing  was  grisly  plain  to 
Banneker,  but  he  must  have  confirmation.  He  went  to  the  city 
editor.  Had  any  reporter  been  sent  to  see  Judge  Enderby? 

Yes :  Dilson,  one  of  the  men  frequently  assigned  to  do  Marri 
neal's  and  Ives's  special  work  had  been  sent  to  Enderby's  on  the 
previous  day  with  specific  instructions  to  ask  a  single  question : 
"When  was  the  Judge  going  to  issue  his  formal  withdrawal": 
Yes:  that  was  the  precise  form  of  the  question:  not,  "Was  he 
going  to  withdraw,"  but  "  When  was  he,"  and  so  on. 

The  Judge  would  not  answer,  except  to  say  that  he  might  have 
a  statement  to  make  within  twenty-four  hours.  This  afternoon 
(continued  the  city  editor)  Enderby,  it  was  understood,  had  tele 
phoned  to  The  Sphere  and  asked  that  Russell  Edmonds  come  to 
his  house  between  four  and  five.  No  one  else  would  do.  Edmonds 
had  gone,  had  been  closeted  with  Enderby  for  an  hour,  and  had 
emerged  with  the  brief  typed  statement  for  distribution  to  all  the 
papers.  He  would  not  say  a  word  as  to  the  interview.  Judge 
Enderby  absolutely  denied  himself  to  all  callers.  Physician's 
orders  again. 

Banneker  reflected  that  if  the  talk  between  Edmonds  and 
Enderby  had  been  what  he  could  surmise,  the  veteran  would 
hardly  attend  the  dinner  in  his  (Banneker's)  honor.  Honor  and 
Banneker  would  be  irreconcilable  terms,  to  the  stern  judgment  of 
Pop  Edmonds.  Had  they,  indeed,  become  irreconcilable  terms? 
It  was  a  question  which  Banneker,  in  the  turmoil  of  his  mind, 
could  not  face.  On  his  way  along  Park  Row  he  stopped  and  had 


532  Success 

a  drink.  It  seemed  to  produce  no  effect,  so  presently  he  had 
another.  After  the  fourth,  he  clarified  and  enlarged  his  outlook 
upon  the  whole  question,  which  he  now  saw  in  its  entirety.  He 
perceived  himself  as  the  victim  of  unique  circumstances,  forced 
by  the  demands  of  honor  into  what  might  seem,  to  unenlight 
ened  minds,  dubious  if  not  dishonorable  positions,  each  one  of 
them  in  reality  justified :  yes,  necessitated !  Perhaps  he  was  at 
fault  in  his  very  first  judgment ;  perhaps,  had  he  even  then,  in  his 
inexperience,  seen  what  he  now  saw  so  clearly  in  the  light  of 
experience,  the  deadly  pitfalls  into  which  journalism,  undertaken 
with  any  other  purpose  than  the  simple  setting  forth  of  truth, 
beguiles  its  practitioners  —  perhaps  he  might  have  drawn  back 
from  the  first  step  of  passive  deception  and  have  resigned  rather 
than  been  a  party  to  the  suppression  of  the  facts  about  the 
Veridian  killings.  Resigned  ?  And  forfeited  all  his  force  for  edu 
cation,  for  enlightenment,  for  progress  of  thought  and  belief, 
exerted  upon  millions  of  minds  through  The  Patriot  ? . . .  Would 
that  not  have  been  the  way  of  cowardice  ? ...  He  longed  to  be  left 
to  himself.  To  think  it  all  out.  What  would  lo  say,  if  she  knew 
everything  ?  lo  whose  silence  was  surrounding  him  with  a  cold 

terror He  had  to  get  home  and  dress  for  that  cursed  dinner ! 

Marrineal  had  done  the  thing  quite  royally.  The  room  was 
superb  with  flowers ;  the  menu  the  best  devisable ;  the  wines  not 
wide  of  range,  but  choice  of  vintage.  The  music  was  by  profes 
sionals  of  the  first  grade,  willing  to  give  their  favors  to  these 
powerful  men  of  the  press.  The  platform  table  was  arranged  for 
Marrineal  in  the  presiding  chair,  flanked  by  Banneker  and  the 
mayor :  Horace  Vanney,  Gaines,  a  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court, 
two  city  commissioners,  and  an  eminent  political  boss.  The 
Masters,  senior  and  junior,  had  been  invited,  but  declined,  the 
latter  politely,  the  former  quite  otherwise.  Below  were  the  small 
group  tables,  to  be  occupied  by  Banneker's  friends  and  con 
temporaries  of  local  newspaperdom,  and  a  few  outsiders,  literary, 
theatrical,  and  political.  When  Banneker  appeared  in  the  recep 
tion-room  where  the  crowd  awaited,  smiling,  graceful,  vigorous, 
and  splendid  as  a  Greek  athlete,  the  whole  assemblage  rose  in 
acclaim  —  all  but  one.  Russell  Edmonds,  somber  and  thought- 


Fulfillment  533 

ful,  kept  his  seat.  His  leonine  head  drooped  over  his  broad  shirt- 
bosom. 

Said  Mallory  of  The  Ledger,  bending  over  him : 

"Look  at  Ban,  Pop!" 

"I'm  looking,"  gloomed  Edmonds. 

"What's  behind  that  smile?  Something  frozen.  What's  the 
matter  with  him?"  queried  the  observant  Mallory. 

"Too  much  success." 

"It'll  be  too  much  dinner  if  he  doesn't  look  out,"  remarked  the 
other.  "  He's  trying  to  match  cocktails  with  every  one  that  comes 
up." 

"Won't  make  a  bit  of  difference,"  muttered  the  veteran. 
"He's  all  steel.  Cold  steel.  Can't  touch  him." 

Marrineal  led  the  way  out  of  the  ante-room  to  the  banquet, 
escorting  Banneker.  Never  had  the  editor  of  The  Patriot  seemed 
to  be  more  completely  master  of  himself.  The  drink  had  bright 
ened  his  eyes,  brought  a  warm  flush  to  the  sun-bronze  of  his 
cheek,  lent  swiftness  to  his  tongue.  He  was  talking  brilliantly, 
matching  epigrams  with  the  Great  Gaines,  shrewdly  poking 
good-natured  fun  at  the  stolid  and  stupid  mayor,  holding  his  and 
the  near-by  tables  in  spell  with  reminiscences  in  which  so  many 
of  them  shared.  Some  wondered  how  he  would  have  anything 
left  for  his  speech. 

While  the  game  course  was  being  served,  Ely  Ives  was  sum 
moned  outside.  Banneker,  whose  faculties  had  taken  on  a  preter 
natural  acuteness,  saw,  when  he  returned,  that  his  face  had 
whitened  and  sharpened;  watched  him  write  a  note  which  he 
folded  and  pinned  before  sending  it  to  Marrineal.  In  the  midst 
of  a  story,  which  he  carried  without  interruption,  the  guest  of 
honor  perceived  a  sort  of  glaze  settle  over  his  chief's  immobile 
visage ;  the  next  moment  he  had  very  slightly  shaken  his  head  at 
Ives.  Banneker  concluded  his  story.  Marrineal  capped  it  with 
another.  Ives,  usually  abstemious  as  befits  one  who  practices 
sleight-of-hand  and  brain,  poured  his  empty  goblet  full  of 
champagne  and  emptied  it  in  long,  eager  draughts.  The  dinner 
went  on. 

The  ices  were  being  cleared  away  when  a  newspaper  man,  not 


534  Success 

in  evening  clothes,  slipped  in  and  talked  for  a  moment  with  Mr. 
Gordon  of  The  Ledger.  Presently  another  quietly  appropriated 
a  seat  next  to  Van  Cleve  of  The  Sphere.  The  tidings,  whatever 
they  were,  spread.  Then,  the  important  men  of  the  different 
papers  gathered  about  Russell  Edmonds.  They  seemed  to  be 
putting  to  him  brief  inquiries,  to  which  he  answered  with  set  face 
and  confirming  nods.  With  his  quickened  faculties,  Banneker 
surmised  one  of  those  inside  secrets  of  journalism  so  often 
sacredly  kept,  though  a  hundred  men  know  them,  of  which  the 
public  reads  only  the  obvious  facts,  the  empty  shell.  Now  and 
again  he  caught  a  quick  and  veiled  glance  of  incomprehension,  of 
doubt,  of  incredulity,  cast  at  him. 

He  chattered  on.  Never  did  he  talk  more  brilliantly. 

Coffee.  Presently  there  would  be  cigars.  Then  Marrineal 
would  introduce  him,  and  he  would  say  to  these  men,  this  high 
and  inner  circle  of  journalism,  the  things  which  he  could  not 
write  for  his  public,  which  he  could  present  to  them  alone,  since 
they  alone  would  understand.  It  was  to  be  his  magnum  opus, 
that  speech.  For  a  moment  he  had  lost  physical  visualization  in 
mental  vision.  When  again  he  let  his  eyes  rest  on  the  scene  be 
fore  him,  he  perceived  that  a  strange  thing  had  happened.  The 
table  at  which  Van  Cleve  had  sat,  with  seven  others,  was  empty. 
In  the  same  glance  he  saw  Mr.  Gordon  rise  and  quietly  walk  out, 
followed  by  the  other  newspaper  men  in  the  group.  Two  politi 
cians  were  left.  They  moved  close  to  each  other  and  spoke  in 
whispers,  looking  curiously  at  Banneker. 

What  manner  of  news  could  that  have  been,  brought  in  by  the 
working  newspaper  man,  thus  to  depopulate  a  late-hour  dining- 
table?  Had  the  world  turned  upside  down? 

Below  him,  and  but  a  few  paces  distant,  Tommy  Burt  was 
seated.  When  he,  too,  got  slowly  to  his  feet,  Banneker  leaned 
across  the  strewn,  white  napery  toward  him. 

"What's  up,  Tommy?" 

For  an  instant  the  star  reporter  stopped,  seemed  to  turn  an 
answer  over  in  his  mind,  then  shook  his  head,  and,  with  an  un 
fathomable  look  of  incredulity  and  shrinking,  went  his  wa.^. 
Bunny  Fitch  followed;  Fitch,  the  slave  of  his  paper's  conven- 


Fulfillment  535 


tions,  the  man  without  standards  other  than  those  which  were 
made  for  him  by  the  terms  of  his  employment,  who  would  go 
only  because  his  proprietors  would  have  him  go :  and  the  grin 
which  he  turned  up  to  Banneker  was  malignant  and  scornful. 
Already  the  circle  about  Ely  Ives,  who  was  still  drinking  eagerly, 
had  melted  away.  Glidden,  Mallory,  Gale,  Andreas,  and  a  dozen 
others  of  his  oldest  associates  were  at  the  door,  not  talking  as 
they  would  have  done  had  some  "  big  story  "  broken  at  that  hour, 
but  moving  in  a  chill  silence  and  purposefully  like  men  seeking 
relief  from  an  unendurable  atmosphere.  The  deadly  suspicion  of 
the  truth  struck  in  upon  the  guest  of  honor;  they,  his  friends, 
were  going  because  they  could  no  longer  take  part  in  honoring 
him.  His  mind  groped,  terrified  and  blind,  among  black  shadows. 

Marrineal,  for  once  allowing  discomposure  to  ruffle  his  im 
perturbability,  rose  to  check  the  exodus. 

"  Gentlemen !  One  moment,  if  you  please.  As  soon  as  — " 

The  rest  was  lost  to  Banneker  as  he  beheld  Edmonds  rear  his 
spare  form  up  from  his  chair  a  few  paces  away.  Reckless  of  cere 
mony  now,  the  central  figure  of  the  feast  rose. 

"Edmonds!  Pop!" 

The  veteran  stopped,  turning  the  slow,  sad  judgment  of  his 
eyes  upon  the  other. 

"What  is  it?"  appealed  Banneker.  "What's  happened?  Tell 
me." 

"  Willis  Enderby  is  dead." 

The  query,  which  forced  itself  from  Banneker's  lips,  was  a  self- 
accusation.  "By  his  own  hand?" 

"By  yours,"  answered  Edmonds,  and  strode  from  the  place. 

Groping,  Banneker's  fingers  encountered  a  bottle,  closed  about 
it,  drew  it  in.  He  poured  and  drank.  He  thought  it  wine.  Not 
until  the  reeking  stab  of  brandy  struck  to  his  brain  did  he  realize 
the  error. ...  All  right.  Brandy.  He  needed  it.  He  was  going  to 
make  a  speech.  What  speech  ?  How  did  it  begin. .  . .  What  was 

this  that  Marrineal  was  saying?  "In  view  of  the  tragic  news 

Call  off  the  speech-making?"  Not  at  all!  He,  Banneker,  must 
have  his  chance.  He  could  explain  everything. 

Brilliantly,  convincingly  to  his  own  rnind,  he  began.  Ic  was 


536  Success 

all  right ;  only  the  words  in  their  eagerness  to  set  forth  the  purity 
of  his  motives,  the  unimpeachable  rectitude  of  his  standards, 
became  confused.  Somebody  was  plucking  at  his  arm.  Ives? 
All  right  ?  Ives  was  a  good  fellow,  after  all. . .  .  Yes :  he'd  go  home 
—  with  Ives.  Ives  would  understand. 

All  the  way  back  to  The  House  With  Three  Eyes  he  explained 
himself ;  any  fair-minded  man  would  see  that  he  had  done  his 
best.  Ives  was  fair-minded ;  he  saw  it.  Ives  was  a  man  of  judg 
ment.  Therefore,  when  he  suggested  bed,  he  must  be  right.  Very 
weary,  Banneker  was.  He  felt  very,  very  wretched  about 
Enderby.  He'd  explain  it  all  to  Enderby  in  the  morning  —  no : 
couldn't  do  that,  though.  Enderby  was  dead.  Queer  idea,  that ! 
What  was  it  that  violent-minded  idiot,  Pop  Edmonds,  had  said  ? 
He'd  settle  with  Pop  in  the  morning.  Now  he'd  go  to  sleep. .  .  . 

He  woke  to  utter  misery.  In  the  first  mail  came  the  letter, 
now  expected,  from  lo.  It  completed  the  catastrophe  in  which 
his  every  hope  was  swept  away. 

I  have  tried  to  make  myself  believe  (she  wrote)  that  you  could  not 
have  betrayed  him;  that  you  would  not,  at  least,  have  let  me,  who 
loved  you,  be,  unknowingly,  the  agent  of  his  destruction.  But  the 
black  record  comes  back  to  me.  The  Harvey  Wheelwright  editorial, 
which  seemed  so  light  a  thing,  then.  The  lie  that  beat  Robert  Laird. 
The  editorial  that  you  dared  not  print,  after  promising.  All  of  one 
piece.  How  could  I  ever  have  trusted  you! 

Oh,  Ban,  Ban!  When  I  think  of  what  we  have  been  to  each  other; 
how  gladly,  how  proudly,  I  gave  myself  to  you,  to  find  you  unfaithful! 
Is  that  the  price  of  success?  And  unfaithful  in  such  a  way!  If  you  had 
been  untrue  to  me  in  the  conventional  sense,  I  think  it  would  have 
been  a  small  matter  compared  to  this  betrayal.  That  would  have  been 
a  thing  of  the  senses,  a  wound  to  the  lesser  part  of  our  love.  But  this  — 
Couldn't  you  see  that  our  relation  demanded  more  of  faith,  of  fidelity, 
than  marriage,  to  justify  it  and  sustain  it;  more  idealism,  more  truth, 
more  loyalty  to  what  we  were  to  each  other?  And  now  this! 

If  it  were  I  alone  that  you  have  betrayed,  I  could  bear  my  own 
remorse;  perhaps  even  think  it  retribution  for  what  I  have  done.  But 
how  can  I  —  and  how  can  you  —  bear  the  remorse  of  the  disaster  that 
will  fall  upon  Camilla  Van  Arsdale,  your  truest  friend?  What  is  there 
left  to  her,  now  that  the  man  she  loves  is  to  be  hounded  out  of  public 


Fulfillment  537 


life  by  blackmailers?  I  have  not  told  her.  I  have  not  been  able  to  tell 
her.  Perhaps  he  will  write  her,  himself.  How  can  she  bear  it!  I  am 
going  away,  leaving  a  comoanion  in  charge  of  her.  •  .  . 

Camilla  Van  Arsdale !  One  last  drop  of  bitterness  in  the  cup  of 
suffering.  Neither  she  nor  lo  had,  of  course,  learned  of  Enderby's 
death,  and  could  not  for  several  days,  until  the  newspapers 
reached  them.  Banneker  perceived  clearly  the  thing  that  was 
laid  upon  him  to  do.  He  must  go  out  to  Manzanita  and  take  the 
news  to  her.  That  was  part  of  his  punishment.  He  sent  a  tele 
gram  to  Mindle,  his  factotum  on  the  ground. 

Hold  all  newspapers  from  Miss  C.  until  I  get  there,  if  you  have  to 
rob  mails. 

E.  B. 

Without  packing  his  things,  without  closing  his  house,  without 
resigning  his  editorship,  he  took  the  next  train  for  Manzanita. 
lo,  coming  East,  and  still  unaware  of  the  final  tragedy,  passed 
him,  halfway. 

While  the  choir  was  chanting,  over  the  body  of  Willis  Enderby, 
the  solemn  glory  of  Royce  Melvin's  funeral  hymn,  the  script  of 
which  had  been  found  attached  to  his  last  statement,  Banneker, 
speeding  westward,  was  working  out,  in  agony  of  soul,  a  great 
and  patient  penance,  for  his  own  long  observance,  planning  the 
secret  and  tireless  ritual  through  which  Camilla  Van  Arsdale 
should  keep  intact  her  pure  and  long  delayed  happiness  while  her 
life  endured. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  DUN  pony  ambled  along  the  pine-needle-carpeted  trail  leading 
through  the  forest  toward  Camilla  Van  Arsdale's  camp,  com 
fortably  shaded  against  the  ardent  power  of  the  January  sun. 
Behind  sounded  a  soft,  rapid  padding  of  hooves.  The  pony  shied 
to  the  left  with  a  violence  which  might  have  unseated  a  less 
practiced  rider,  as,  with  a  wild  whoop,  Dutch  Pete  came  by  at 
full  gallop.  Pete  had  been  to  a  dance  at  the  Sick  Coyote  on  the 
previous  night  which  had  imperceptibly  merged  itself  into  the 
present  morning,  and  had  there  imbibed  enough  of  the  spirit  of 
the  occasion  to  last  him  his  fifteen  miles  home  to  his  ranch.  Now 
he  pulled  up  and  waited  for  the  slower  rider  to  overtake  him. 

"Howdy,  Ban!" 

" Hello,  Pete." 

"  How's  the  lady  gettin'  on  ?  " 

"  Not  too  well." 

" Can't  see  much  of  anythin',  huh?" 

"No :  and  never  will  again." 

"Sho !  Well,  I  don't  figger  out  as  I'd  want  to  live  long  in  that 
fix.  How  long  does  the  doc  give  her,  Ban  ?  " 

"Perhaps  six  months ;  perhaps  a  year.  She  isn't  afraid  to  die ; 
but  she's  hanging  to  life  just  as  long  as  she  can.  She's  a  game  one, 
Pete." 

"  And  how  long  will  you  be  with  us,  Ban  ?  " 

"Oh,  I'm  likely  to  be  around  quite  a  while  yet." 

Dutch  Pete,  thoroughly  understanding,  reflected  that  here 
was  another  game  one.  But  he  remarked  only  that  he'd  like  to 
drop  in  on  Miss  K'miller  next  time  he  rode  over,  with  a  bit  of 
sage  honey  that  he'd  saved  out  for  her. 

"She'll  be  glad  to  see  you,"  returned  the  other.  "Only,  don't 
forget,  Pete ;  not  a  word  about  anything  except  local  stuff." 

"Sure!"  agreed  Pete  with  that  unquestioning  acceptance  of 
another's  reasons  for  secrecy  which  marks  the  frontiersman. 
"Say,  Ban,"  he  added,  "you  ain't  much  of  an  advertisement  for 


Fulfillment  539 


Manzanita  as  a  health  resort,  yourself.  Better  have  that  doc 
stick  his  head  in  your  mouth  and  look  at  your  insides." 

Banneker  raised  tired  eyes  and  smiled.  "Oh,  I'm  all  right," 
he  replied  listlessly. 

"  Come  to  next  Saturday's  dance  at  the  Coyote ;  that'll  put 
dynamite  in  your  blood,"  prescribed  the  other  as  he  spurred  his 
horse  on. 

Banneker  had  no  need  to  turn  the  dun  pony  aside  to  the  branch 
trail  that  curved  to  the  door  of  his  guest ;  the  knowing  animal 
took  it  by  habitude,  having  traversed  it  daily  for  a  long  time.  It 
was  six  months  since  Banneker  had  bought  him:  six  months 
and  a  week  since  Willis  Enderby  had  been  buried.  And  the 
pony's  rider  had  in  his  pocket  a  letter,  of  date  only  four  days 
old,  from  Willis  Enderby  to  Camilla  Van  Arsdale.  It  was  dated 
from  the  Governor's  Mansion,  Albany,  New  York.  Banneker  had 
written  it  himself,  the  night  before.  He  had  also  composed  nearly 
a  column  of  supposed  Amalgamated  Wire  report,  regarding  the 
fight  for  and  against  Governor  Enderby's  reform  measures,  which 
he  would  read  presently  to  Miss  Van  Arsdale  from  the  dailies 
just  received.  As  he  dismounted,  the  clear  music  of  her  voice 
called: 

"Any  mail,  Ban?" 

"Yes.  Letter  from  Albany." 

"Let  me  open  it  myself,"  she  cried  jealously. 

He  delivered  it  into  her  hands :  this  was  part  of  the  ritual.  She, 
ran  her  fingers  caressingly  over  it,  as  if  to  draw  from  it  the  hidden 
sweetness  of  her  lover's  strength,  which  must  still  be  only  half- 
expressed,  because  the  words  were  to  be  translated  through 
another's  reading;  then  returned  it  to  its  real  author. 

"Read  it  slowly,  Ban,"  she  commanded  softly. 

Having  completed  the  letter,  his  next  process  was  to  run 
through  the  papers,  giving  in  full  any  news  or  editorials  on  State 
politics.  This  was  a  task  demanding  the  greatest  mental  con 
centration  and  alertness,  for  he  had  built  up  a  contemporary 
history  out  of  his  imagination,  and  must  keep  all  the  details 
congruous  and  logical.  Several  times,  with  that  uncanny  reten- 
tiveness  of  memory  developed  in  the  blind,  she  had  all  but  caught 


540  Success 

him ;  but  each  time  his  adroitness  saved  the  day.  Later,  while  he 
was  at  work  in  the  room  which  she  had  set  aside  for  his  daily 
writing,  she  would  answer  the  letter  on  the  typewriter,  having 
taught  herself  to  write  by  position  and  touch,  and  he  would  take 
her  reply  for  posting.  Her  nurse  and  companion,  an  elderly 
woman  with  a  natural  aptitude  for  silence  and  discretion,  was 
Banneker's  partner  in  the  secret.  The  third  member  of  the  con 
spiracy  was  the  physician  who  came  once  a  week  from  Angelica 
City  because  he  himself  was  a  musician  and  this  slowly  and 
courageously  dying  woman  was  Royce  Melvin.  Between  them 
they  hedged  her  about  with  the  fiction  that  victoriously  defied 
grief  and  defeated  death. 

Camilla  Van  Arsdale  got  up  from  her  couch  and  walked  with 
confident  footsteps  to  the  piano. 

"Ban,"  she  said,  seating  herself  and  letting  her  fingers  run 
over  the  keys,  "can't  you  substitute  another  word  for  'muffled' 
in  the  third  line  ?  It  comes  on  a  high  note  —  upper  g  —  and  I 
want  a  long,  not  a  short  vowel  sound." 

"  How  would '  silenced '  do  ?  "  he  offered,  after  studying  the  line. 

" Beautifully.  You're  a  most  amiable  poet!  Ban,  I  think 
your  verses  are  going  to  be  more  famous  than  my  music." 

"Never  that,"  he  denied.  "It's  the  music  that  makes  them." 

"Have  you  heard  from  Mr.  Gaines  yet  about  the  essays?" 

"  Yes.  He's  taking  them.  He  wants  to  print  two  in  each  issue 
and  call  them  'Far  Perspectives.'" 

"Oh,  good!"  she  cried.  "But,  Ban,  fine  as  your  work  is,  it 
seems  a  terrible  waste  of  your  powers  to  be  out  here.  You  ought 
to  be  in  New  York,  helping  the  governor  put  through  his  pro 
jects." 

"Well,  you  know,  the  doctor  won't  give  me  my  release." 

(Presently  he  must  remember  to  have  a  coughing  spell.  He 
coughed  hollowly  and  well,  thanks  to  assiduous  practice.  This 
was  part  of  the  grim  and  loving  comedy  of  deception:  that  he  had 
been  peremptorily  ordered  back  to  Manzanita  on  account  of 
"weak  lungs,"  with  orders  to  live  in  his  open  shack  until  he  had 
gained  twenty  pounds.  He  was  gaining,  but  with  well-considered 
slowness.) 


Fulfillment  541 


"But  when  you  can,  you'll  go  back  and  help  him,  even  if  I'm 
not  here  to  know  about  it,  won't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes :  I'll  go  back  to  help  him  when  I  can,"  he  promised, 
as  heartily  as  if  he  had  not  made  the  same  promise  each  time 
that  the  subject  came  up.  There  was  still  a  good  deal  of  the 
wistful  child  about  the  dying  woman. 

Out  from  that  forest  hermitage  where  the  two  worked,  one  in 
serene  though  longing  happiness,  the  other  under  the  stern  dis 
cipline  of  loss  and  self -abnegation,  had  poured,  in  six  short 
months,  a  living  current  of  song  which  had  lifted  the  fame  of 
Royce  Melvin  to  new  heights :  her  fame  only,  for  Banneker  would 
not  use  his  name  to  the  words  that  rang  with  a  pure  and  vivid 
melody  of  their  own.  Herein,  too,  he  was  paying  his  debt  to 
Willis  Enderby,  through  the  genius  of  the  woman  who  loved  him ; 
preserving  that  genius  with  the  thin,  lustrous,  impregnable  fic 
tion  of  his  own  making  against  threatening  and  impotent  truth. 

Once,  when  Banneker  had  brought  her  a  lyric,  alive  with  the 
sweetness  of  youth  and  love  in  the  great  open  spaces,  she  had 
said: 

"Ban,  shall  we  call  it  'Io?'" 

"I  don't  think  it  would  do,"  he  said  with  an  effort. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"Traveling  in  the  tropics." 

"You  try  so  hard  to  keep  the  sadness  out  of  your  voice  when 
you  speak  of  her,"  said  Camilla  sorrowfully.  "But  it's  always 
there.  Isn't  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

"Nothing.  There's  nothing  anybody  can  do." 

The  blind  woman  hesitated.  "But  you  care  for  her  still,  don't 
you,  Ban?" 

"Care!  Oh,  my  God!"  whispered  Banneker. 

"And  she  cares.  I  know  she  cared  when  she  was  here.  lo  isn't 
the  kind  of  woman  to  forget  easily.  She  tried  once,  you  know." 
Miss  Van  Arsdale  smiled  wanly.  "Why  doesn't  she  ever  say 
anything  of  you  in  her  letters?" 

"She  does." 

"Very  little."  (lo's  letters,  passing  through  Banneker's  hands 
were  carefully  censored,  of  necessity,  to  forefend  any  allusion  to 


542  Success 


the  tragedy  of  Willis  Enderby,  often  to  the  extent  of  being  re 
written  complete.  It  now  occurred  to  Banneker  that  he  had  per 
haps  overdone  the  matter  of  keeping  his  own  name  out  of  them.) 
"Ban,"  she  continued  wistfully,  "you  haven't  quarreled,  have 
you?" 

"No,  Miss  Camilla.  We  haven't  quarreled." 

"Then  what  is  it,  Ban?  I  don't  want  to  pry;  you  know  me 
well  enough  to  be  sure  of  that.  But  if  I  could  only  know  before 
the  end  comes  that  you  two  —  I  wish  I  could  read  your  face. 
It's  a  helpless  thing,  being  blind."  This  was  as  near  a  complaint 
as  he  had  ever  heard  her  utter. 

"lo's  a  rich  woman,  Miss  Camilla,"  he  said  desperately. 

"What  of  it?" 

"  How  could  I  ask  her  to  marry  a  jobless,  half -lunged  derelict  ?  " 

"Have  you  asked  her?" 

He  was  silent. 

"  Ban,  does  she  know  why  you're  here  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes;  she  knows." 

"How  bitter  and  desolate  your  voice  sounds  when  you  say 
that!  And  you  want  me  to  believe  that  she  knows  and  still 
doesn't  come  to  you?" 

"She  doesn't  know  that  I'm  —  ill,"  he  said,  hating  himself  for 
the  necessity  of  pretense  with  Camilla  Van  Arsdale. 

"Then  I  shall  tell  her." 

"No,"  he  controverted  with  finality,  "I  won't  allow  it." 

"Suppose  it  turned  out  that  this  were  really  the  right  path  for 
you  to  travel,"  she  said  after  a  pause ;  "  that  you  were  going  to  do 
bigger  things  here  than  you  ever  could  do  with  The  Patriot?  I 
believe  it's  going  to  be  so,  Ban ;  that  what  you  are  doing  now  is 
going  to  be  your  true  success." 

"  Success ! "  he  cried.  "  Are  you  going  to  preach  success  to  me  ? 
If  ever  there  was  a  word  coined  in  hell  —  I'm  sorry,  Miss 
Camilla,"  he  broke  off,  mastering  himself. 

She  groped  her  way  to  the  piano,  and  ran  her  fingers  over  the 
keys.  "There  is  work,  anyway,"  she  said  with  sure  serenity. 

"Yes ;  there's  work,  thank  God !" 

Work  enough  there  was  for  him,  not  only  in  his  writing,  for 


Fulfillment  543 


which  he  had  recovered  the  capacity  after  a  long  period  of 
stunned  inaction,  but  in  the  constant  and  unwearied  labor  of  love 
in  building  and  rebuilding,  fortifying  and  extending,  that  pre 
carious  but  still  impregnable  bulwark  of  falsehood  beneath 
whose  protection  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  lived  and  was  happy  and 
made  the  magic  of  her  song.  Illusion!  Banneker  wondered 
whether  any  happiness  were  other  than  illusion,  whether  the 
illusion  of  happiness  were  not  better  than  any  reality.  But  in 
the  world  of  grim  fact  which  he  had  accepted  for  himself  was  no 
palliating  mirage.  Upon  him  "the  illusive  eyes  of  hope"  were 
closed. 

While  Banneker  was  practicing  his  elaborate  deceptions,  Miss 
Van  Arsdale  had  perpetrated  a  lesser  one  of  her  own,  which  she 
had  not  deemed  it  wise  to  reveal  to  him  in  their  conversation 
about  lo.  Some  time  before  that  she  had  written  to  her  former 
guest  a  letter  tactfully  designed  to  lay  a  foundation  for  resolving 
the  difficulty  or  misunderstanding  between  the  lovers.  In  the 
normal  course  of  events  this  would  have  been  committed  for 
mailing  to  Banneker,  who  would,  of  course,  have  confiscated 
it.  But,  as  it  chanced,  it  was  hardly  off  the  typewriter  when 
Dutch  Pete  dropped  in  for  a  friendly  call  while  Banneker  was 
at  the  village,  and  took  the  missive  with  him  for  mailing.  It 
traveled  widely,  amassed  postmarks  and  forwarding  addresses, 
and  eventually  came  to  its  final  port. 

Worn  out  with  the  hopeless  quest  of  forgetf ulness  in  far  lands, 
lo  Eyre  came  back  to  New  York.  It  was  there  that  the  long  pur 
suit  of  her  by  Camilla  Van  Arsdale's  letter  ended.  Bewilderment 
darkened  lo's  mind  as  she  read,  to  be  succeeded  by  an  appalled 
conjecture ;  Camilla  Van  Arsdale's  mind  had  broken  down  under 
her  griefs.  What  other  hypothesis  could  account  for  her  writing 
of  Willis  Enderby  as  being  still  alive  ?  And  of  her  having  letters 
from  him?  To  the  appeal  for  Banneker  which,  concealed  though 
it  was,  underlay  the  whole  purport  of  the  writing,  lo  closed  her 
heart,  seared  by  the  very  sight  of  his  name.  She  would  have  torn 
the  letter  up,  but  something  impelled  her  to  read  it  again ;  some 
hint  of  a  pregnant  secret  to  be  gleaned  from  it,  if  ont  but  held  the 
clue.  Hers  was  a  keen  and  thoughtful  mind.  She  sent  it  exploring 


544  Success 


through  the  devious  tangle  of  the  maze  wherein  she  and  Banne 
ker,  Camilla  Van  Arsdale  and  Willis  Enderby  had  been  so  tragi 
cally  involved,  and  as  she  patiently  studied  the  letter  as  possible 
guide  there  dawned  within  her  a  glint  of  the  truth.  It  began  with 
the  suspicion,  soon  growing  to  conviction,  that  the  writer  of  those 
inexplicable  words  was  not,  could  not  be  insane;  the  letter 
breathed  a  clarity  of  mind,  an  untroubled  simplicity  of  heart,  a 
quiet  undertone  of  happiness,  impossible  to  reconcile  with  the 
picture  of  a  shattered  and  grief-stricken  victim.  Yet  lo  had, 
herself,  written  to  Miss  Van  Arsdale  as  soon  as  she  knew  of  Judge 
Enderby's  death,  pouring  out  her  heart  for  the  sorrow  of  the 
woman  who  as  a  stranger  had  stood  her  friend,  whom,  as  she 
learned  to  know  her  in  the  close  companionship  of  her  affliction, 
she  had  come  to  love ;  offering  to  return  at  once  to  Manzanita. 
To  that  offer  had  come  no  answer ;  later  she  had  had  a  letter  curi 
ously  reticent  as  to  Willis  Enderby.  (Banneker,  in  his  epistolary 
personification  of  Miss  Van  Arsdale  had  been  perhaps  over 
cautious  on  this  point.)  lo  began  to  piece  together  hints  and 
clues,  as  in  a  disjected  puzzle :  —  Banneker's  presence  in  Man 
zanita —  Camilla's  blindness. —  Her  inability  to  know,  except 
through  the  medium  of  others,  the  course  of  events. —  The  be 
wildering  reticence  and  hiatuses  in  the  infrequent  letters  from 
Manzanita,  particularly  in  regard  to  Willis  Enderby. —  This 
calm,  sane,  cheerful  view  of  him  as  a  living  being,  a  present  figure 
in  his  old  field  of  action. —  The  casual  mention  in  an  early  letter 
that  all  of  Miss  Van  Arsdale 's  reading  and  most  of  her  writing 
was  done  through  the  nurse  or  Banneker,  mainly  the  latter, 
though  she  was  mastering  the  art  of  touch- writing  on  the  type 
writer.  The  very  style  of  the  earlier  letters,  as  she  remembered 
them,  was  different.  And  just  here  flashed  the  thought  which  set 
her  feverishly  ransacking  the  portfolio  in  which  she  kept  her  old 
correspondence.  There  she  found  an  envelope  with  a  Manzanita 
postmark  dated  four  months  earlier.  The  typing  of  the  two  letters 
was  not  the  same. 

Groping  for  some  aid  in  the  murk,  lo  went  to  the  telephone  and 
called  up  the  editorial  office  of  The  Sphere,  asking  for  Russell 
Edmonds.  Within  two  hours  the  veteran  had  come  to  her, 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  see  you,"  he  said  at  once. 


Fulfillment  545 

"About  Mr.  Banneker ?  "  she  queried  eagerly. 

"No.  About  The  Searchlight." 

"The  Searchlight?  I  don't  understand,  Mr.  Edmonds." 

"Can't  we  be  open  with  each  other,  Mrs.  Eyre?" 

"Absolutely,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"Then  I  want  to  tell  you  that  you  need  have  no  fear  as  to  what 
The  Searchlight  may  do." 

"  Still  I  don't  understand.  Why  should  I  fear  it  ?  " 

"The  scandal  —  manufactured,  of  course — which  The  Search 
light  had  cooked  up  about  you  and  Mr.  Banneker  before  Mr. 
Eyre's  death." 

"Surely  there  was  never  anything  published.  I  should  have 
heard  of  it." 

"No ;  there  wasn't.  Banneker  stopped  it." 

"Ban?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  knew  nothing  of  this,  Mrs. 
Eyre?"  he  said,  the  wonder  in  his  face  answering  the  bewilder 
ment  in  hers.  "  Didn't  Banneker  tell  you?" 

"Never  a  word.  " 

'No ;  I  suppose  he  wouldn't,"  ruminated  the  veteran.  "That 
would  be  like  Ban  — the  old  Ban,"  he  added  sadly.  "Mrs. 
Eyre,  I  loved  that  boy,"  he  broke  out,  his  stern  and  somber  face 
working.  "There  are  times  even  now  when  I  can  scarcely  make 
myself  believe  that  he  did  what  he  did." 

"Wait,"  pleaded  lo.  "How  did  he  stop  The  Searchlight?" 

"By  threatening  Bussey  with  an  expose  that  would  have  blown 
him  out  of  the  water.  Blackmail,  if  you  like,  Mrs.  Eyre,  and  not. 
of  the  most  polite  kind." 

"For  me,"  whispered  lo. 

"He  held  that  old  carrion-buzzard,  Bussey,  up  at  the  muzzle 
of  The  Patriot  as  if  it  were  a  blunderbuss.  It  was  loaded  to  kill, 
too.  And  then,"  pursued  Edmonds,  "he  paid  the  price.  Mar- 
rineal  got  out  his  little  gun  and  held  him  up." 

"Held  Ban  up?  What  for?  How  could  he  do  that?  All  this 
is  a  riddle  to  me,  Mr.  Edmonds." 

"Do  you  think  you  really  want  to  know?"  asked  the  other 
with  a  touch  of  grimness.  "  It  won't  be  pleasant  hearing." 

"I've  got  to  know.  Everything!" 


546  Success 


"Very  well.  Here's  the  situation.  Banneker  points  his  gun, 
The  Patriot,  at  Bussey.  'Be  good  or  I'll  shoot,'  he  says.  Marri- 
neal  learns  of  it,  never  mind  how.  He  points  his  gun  at  Ban. 
'Be  good,  or  I'll  shoot,'  says  he.  And  there  you  are !" 

"But  what  was  his  gun?  And  why  need  he  threaten  Ban?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  Mrs.  Eyre,  about  that  time  things  were  com 
ing  to  an  issue  between  Ban  and  Marrineal.  Ban  was  having  a 
hard  fight  for  the  independence  of  his  editorial  page.  His  strong 
est  hold  on  Marrineal  was  Marrineal's  fear  of  losing  him.  There 
were  plenty  of  opportunities  open  to  a  Banneker.  Well,  when 
Marrineal  got  Ban  where  he  couldn't  resign,  Ban's  hold  was  gone. 
That  was  Marrineal's  gun." 

"Why  couldn't  he  resign?"  asked  lo,  white-lipped. 

"If  he  quit  The  Patriot  he  could  no  longer  hold  Bussey,  and 
The  Searchlight  could  print  what  it  chose.  You  see?" 

"I  see,"  said  lo,  very  low.  "Oh,  why  couldn't  I  have  seen 
before!" 

"How  could  you,  if  Ban  told  you  nothing?"  reasoned  Ed 
monds.  "The  blame  of  the  miserable  business  isn't  yours. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  if  it's  anybody's ;  if  the  newspaper  game 
isn't  just  too  strong  for  us  who  try  to  play  it.  As  for  The  Search 
light,  I've  since  got  another  hold  on  Bussey  which  will  keep  him 
from  making  any  trouble.  That's  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  what  does  it  matter !  What  does  it  matter ! "  she  moaned. 
She  crossed  to  the  window,  laid  her  hot  and  white  face  against 
the  cool  glass,  pressed  her  hands  in  upon  her  temples,  striving  to 
think  connectedly.  "Then  whatever  he  did  on  The  Patriot, 
whatever  compromises  he  yielded  to  or  —  or  cowardices — "  she 
winced  at  the  words  — "  were  done  to  save  his  place ;  to  save  me." 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  returned  the  other  gently. 

"Do  you  know  what  he's  doing  now?"  she  demanded. 

"I  understand  he's  back  at  Manzanita." 

"He  is.  And  from  what  I  can  make  out,"  she  added  fiercely, 
"he  is  giving  up  his  life  to  guarding  Miss  Van  Arsdale  from 
breaking  her  heart,  as  she  will  do,  if  she  learns  of  Judge  Enderby's 
death  —  Oh ! "  she  cried,  "  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that !  You  must 
forget  that  there  was  anything  said." 


Fulfillment  547 


"No  need.  I  know  all  that  story,"  he  said  gravely.  "That  is 
what  I  couldn't  forgive  in  Ban.  That  he  should  have  betrayed 
Miss  Van  Arsdale,  his  oldest  friend.  That  is  the  unpardonable 
treachery." 

"To  save  me,"  said  lo. 

"Not  even  for  that.  He  owed  more  to  her  than  to  you." 

" I  can't  believe  that  he  did  it ! "  she  wailed.  "To  use  my  letter 
to  set  spies  on  Cousin  Billy  and  ruin  him — it  isn't  Ban.  It  isn't !" 

"He  did  it,  and,  when  it  was  too  late,  he  tried  to  stop  it." 

"To  stop  it?"  She  looked  her  startled  query  at  him.  "How 
do  you  know  that?" 

"Last  week,"  explained  Edmonds,  "Judge  Enderby's  partner 
sent  for  me.  He  had  been  going  over  some  papers  and  had  come 
upon  a  telegram  from  Banneker  urging  Enderby  not  to  leave 
without  seeing  him.  The  telegram  must  have  been  delivered 
very  shortly  after  the  Judge  left  for  the  train." 

"Telegram?  Why  a  telegram?  Wasn't  Ban  in  town?" 

"No.  He  was  down  in  Jersey.  At  The  Retreat." 

"  Wait ! "  gasped  lo.  "  At  The  Retreat !  Then  my  letter  would 
have  been  forwarded  to  him  there.  He  couldn't  have  got  it  at 
the  same  time  that  Cousin  Billy  got  the  one  I  sent  him."  She 
gripped  Russell  Edmonds's  wrists  in  fierce,  strong  hands.  "  What 
if  he  hadn't  known  in  time?  What  if,  the  moment  he  did  know, 
he  did  his  best  to  stop  Cousin  Billy  from  starting,  with  that  tele 
gram?  "  Suddenly  the  light  died  out  of  her  face.  "But  then  how 
would  that  loathsome  Mr.  Ives  have  known  that  he  was  going, 
unless  Ban  betrayed  him?" 

"Easily  enough,"  returned  the  veteran.  "He  had  a  report 
from  his  detectives,  who  had  been  watching  Enderby  for  months. 
. .  .Mrs.  Eyre,  I  wish  you'd  give  me  a  drink.  I  feel  shaky." 

She  left  him  to  give  the  order.  When  she  returned,  they  had 
both  steadied  down.  Carefully,  and  with  growing  conviction, 
they  gathered  the  evidence  into  something  like  a  coherent  whole. 
At  the  end,  lo  moaned : 

"The  one  thing  I  can't  bear  is  that  Cousin  Billy  died,  believing 
that  of  Ban." 

She  threw  herself  upon  the  broad  lounge,  prone,  her  face 


548  Success 

buried  in  her  arms.  The  veteran  of  hundreds  of  fights,  brave  and 
blind,  righteous  and  mistaken,  crowned  with  fleeting  victories, 
tainted  with  irremediable  errors,  stood  silent,  perplexed,  mourn 
ful.  He  walked  slowly  over  to  where  the  girl  was  stretched,  and 
laid  a  clumsy,  comforting  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  I  wish  you'd  cry  for  me,  too,"  he  said  huskily.  "  I'm  too  old." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

EVERY  Saturday  the  distinguished  physician  from  Angelica  City 
came  to  Manzanita  on  the  afternoon  train,  spent  two  or  three 
hours  at  Camilla  Van  Arsdale's  camp,  and  returned  in  time  to 
catch  Number  Seven  back.  No  imaginable  fee  would  have  in 
duced  him  to  abstract  one  whole  day  from  his  enormous  practice 
for  any  otner  patient.  But  he  was  himself  an  ardent  vocal  ama 
teur,  and  to  keep  Royce  Melvin  alive  and  able  to  give  forth  her 
songs  to  the  world  was  a  special  satisfaction  to  his  soul.  More 
over,  he  knew  enough  of  Banneker's  story  to  take  pride  in  being 
partner  in  his  plan  of  deception  and  self-sacrifice.  He  pretended 
that  it  was  a  needed  holiday  for  him :  his  bills  hardly  defrayed  the 
traveling  expense. 

Now,  riding  back  with  Banneker,  he  meditated  a  final  opinion, 
and  out  of  that  opinion  came  speech. 

"Mr.  Banneker,  they  ought  to  give  you  and  me  a  special  niche 
in  the  Hall  of  Fame,"  he  said. 

A  rather  wan  smile  touched  briefly  Banneker's  lips.  "I  be 
lieve  that  my  ambitions  once  reached  even  that  far,"  he  said. 

The  other  reflected  upon  the  implied  tragedy  of  a  life,  so  young, 
for  which  ambition  was  already  in  the  past  tense,  as  he  added : 

"In  the  musical  section.  We've  got  our  share  in  the  nearest 
thing  to  great  music  that  has  been  produced  in  the  America  of 
our  time.  You  and  I.  Principally  you." 

Banneker  made  a  quick  gesture  of  denial. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  owe  to  Camilla  Van  Arsdale,  but 
you've  paid  the  debt.  There  won't  be  much  more  to  pay,  Ban 
neker." 

Banneker  looked  up  sharply. 

"  No."  The  visitor  shook  his  graying  head.  "  We've  performed 
as  near  a  miracle  as  it  is  given  to  poor  human  power  to  perform. 
It  can't  last  much  longer." 

"How  long?" 

"  A  matter  of  weeks.  Not  more.  Banneker,  do  you  believe  in  a 
personal  immortality?" 


550  Success 

" I  don't  know.  Do  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  either.  I  was  thinking If  it  were  so ;  when 

she  gets  across,  what  she  will  feel  when  she  finds  her  man  waiting 
for  her.  God !"  He  lifted  his  face  to  the  great  trees  that  moved 
and  murmured  overhead.  "How  that  heart  of  hers  has  sung  to 
him  all  these  years ! " 

He  lifted  his  voice  and  sent  it  rolling  through  the  cathedral 
aisles  of  the  forest,  in  the  superb  finale  of  the  last  hymn. 

"  For  even  the  purest  delight  may  pall, 
And  power  must  fail,  and  the  pride  must  fall 
And  the  love  of  the  dearest  friends  grow  small  — 
But  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  all  in  all." 

The  great  voice  was  lost  in  the  sighing  of  the  winds.  They  rode 
on,  thoughtful  and  speechless.  When  the  physician  turned  to  his 
companion  again,  it  was  with  a  brisk  change  of  manner. 

"And  now  we'll  consider  you." 

"Nothing  to  consider,"  declared  Banneker. 

"Is  your  professional  judgment  better  than  mine?"  retorted 
the  other.  "How  much  weight  have  you  lost  since  you've  been 
out  here?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Find  out.  Don't  sleep  very  well,  do  you? 

"Not  specially." 

"What  do  you  do  at  night  when  you  can't  sleep?  Work?" 

"No." 

"Well?" 

"Think." 

The  doctor  uttered  a  non-professional  monosyllable.  "What 
will  you  do,"  he  propounded,  waving  his  arm  back  along  the  trail 
toward  the  Van  Arsdale  camp,  "when  this  little  game  of  yours  is 
played  out?" 

"  God  knows ! "  said  Banneker.  It  suddenly  struck  him  that 
life  would  be  blank,  empty  of  interest  or  purpose,  when  Camilla 
Van  Arsdale  died,  when  there  was  no  longer  the  absorbing  neces 
sity  to  preserve,  intact  and  impregnable,  the  fortress  of  love  and 
lies  wherewith  he  had  surrounded  her. 

"When  this  chapter  is  finished,"  said  the  other,  "you  come 


Fulfillment  551 


down  to  Angelica  City  with  me.  Perhaps  we'll  go  on  a  little 
camping  trip  together.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

The  train  carried  him  away.  Oppressed  and  thoughtful, 
Banneker  walked  slowly  across  the  blazing,  cactus-set  open 
toward  his  shack.  There  was  still  the  simple  housekeeping  work 
to  be  done,  for  he  had  left  early  that  morning.  He  felt  suddenly 
spiritless,  flaccid,  too  inert  even  for  the  little  tasks  before  him. 
The  physician's  pronouncement  had  taken  the  strength  from 
him.  Of  course  he  had  known  that  it  couldn't  be  very  long  — 
but  only  a  few  weeks ! 

He  was  almost  at  the  shack  when  he  noticed  that  the  door 
stood  half  ajar. 

But  here,  where  everything  had  been  disorder,  was  now  order. 
The  bed  was  made,  the  few  utensils  washed,  polished,  and  hung 
up ;  on  the  table  a  handful  of  the  alamo's  bright  leaves  in  a  vase 
gave  a  touch  of  color. 

In  the  long  chair  (7  T  4031  of  the  Sears-Roebuck  catalogue) 
sat  lo.  A  book  lay  on  her  lap,  the  book  of  "The  Undying  Voices." 
Her  eyes  were  closed.  Banneker  reached  out  a  hand  to  the  door 
lintel  for  support. 

A  light  tremor  ran  through  lo's  body.  She  opened  her  eyes, 
and  fixed  them  on  Banneker.  She  rose  slowly.  The  book  fell  to 
the  floor  and  lay  open  between  them.  lo  stood,  her  arms  hanging 
straitly  at  her  side,  her  whole  face  a  lovely  and  loving  plea. 

"Please,  Ban!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  little  that  it  hardly 
came  to  his  ears. 

Speech  and  motion  were  denied  him,  in  the  great,  the  incredi 
ble  surprise  of  her  presence. 

"Please,  Ban,  forgive  me."  She  was  like  a  child,  beseeching. 
Her  firm  little  chin  quivered.  Two  great,  soft,  lustrous  tears 
welled  up  from  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  eyes  and  hung,  gleam 
ing,  above  the  lashes.  "Oh,  aren't  you  going  to  speak  to  me !" 
she  cried. 

At  that  the  bonds  of  his  languor  were  rent.  He  leapt  to  her, 
heard  the  broken  music  of  her  sob,  felt  her  arms  close  about  him, 
her  lips  seek  his  and  cling,  loath  to  relinquish  them  even  for  the 
passionate  murmurs  of  her  love  and  longing  for  him. 


552  Success 

"Hold  me  close,  Ban !  Don't  ever  let  me  go  again !  Don't  ever 
let  me  doubt  again !" 

When,  at  length,  she  gently  released  herself,  her  foot  brushed 
the  fallen  book.  She  picked  it  up  tenderly,  and  caressed  its  leaves 
as  she  adjusted  them. 

"Didn't  the  Voices  tell  you  that  I'd  come  back,  Ban?"  she 
asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  "If  they  did,  I  couldn't  hear  them." 

"But  they  sang  to  you,"  she  insisted  gently.  "They  never 
stopped  singing,  did  they?" 

"No.  No.  They  never  stopped  singing." 

"Ah;  then  you  ought  to  have  known,  Ban.  And  I  ought  to 
have  known  that  you  couldn't  have  done  what  I  believed  you 
had.  Are  you  sure  you  forgive  me,  Ban? " 

She  told  him  of  what  she  had  discovered,  of  the  talk  with 
Russell  Edmonds  ("I've  a  letter  from  him  for  you,  dearest  one ; 
he  loves  you,  too.  But  not  as  I  do.  Nobody  could !"  interjected 
lo  jealously),  of  the  clue  of  the  telegram.  And  he  told  her  of 
Camilla  Van  Arsdale  and  the  long  deception ;  and  at  that,  for  the 
first  time  since  he  knew  her,  she  broke  down  and  gave  herself  up 
utterly  to  tears,  as  much  for  him  as  for  the  friend  whom  he  had 
so  loyally  loved  and  served.  When  it  was  over  and  she  had 
regained  command  of  herself,  she  said :  , 

"  Now  you  must  take  me  to  her." 

So  once  more  they  rode  together  into  the  murmurous  peace  of 
the  forest.  lo  leaned  in  her  saddle  as  they  drew  near  the  cabin, 
to  lay  a  hand  on  her  lover's  shoulder. 

"Once,  a  thousand  years  ago,  Ban,"  she  said,  "when  love 
came  to  me,  I  was  a  wicked  little  infidel  and  would  not  believe. 
Not  in  the  Enchanted  Canyon,  nor  in  the  Mountains  of  Fulfill 
ment,  nor  in  the  Fadeless  Gardens  where  the  Undying  Voice? 
sing.  Do  you  remember?" 

"Do  I  not!"  whispered  Ban,  turning  to  kiss  the  fingers  that 
tightened  on  his  shoulder. 

"And  —  and  I  blasphemed  and  said  there  was  always  a  ser 
pent  in  every  Paradise,  and  that  Experience  was  a  horrid  hag, 
with  a  bony  finger  pointing  to  the  snake This  is  my  recanta- 


Fulfillment  553 


tion,  Ban.  I  know  now  that  you  were  the  true  Prophet ;  that 
Experience  has  shining  wings  and  eyes  that  can  lock  to  the 
future  as  well  as  the  past,  and  immortal  Hope  for  a  lover.  And 
that  only  they  two  can  guide  to  the  Mountains  of  Fulfillment. 
Is  it  enough,  Ban  ?  " 

"It  is  enough,"  he  answered  with  grave  happiness. 

"Listen!"  exclaimed  lo. 

The  sound  of  song,  tender  and  passionate  and  triumphant, 
came  pulsing  through  the  silence  to  meet  them  as  they  rode  on. 


THE  END 


fC 


M 138410 


<&( 


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